


Turkey Day

by Haven126



Series: Turkey Day Universe [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Drama, Epic Friendship, Gen, Prisoner of War, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 193,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27393889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haven126/pseuds/Haven126
Summary: A "quick" trip to Istanbul ends with MacGyver in enemy hands, and Dalton presumed KIA. Two weeks later, intel indicates a US operative is aiding the enemy. Rated T for graphic violence and language. Cross-posted from FF for safety.
Series: Turkey Day Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001202
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue. Also, I really have no idea what I'm doing here. All I can tell you is hang on for Chapter 2 – you may be surprised.

-M-

The important thing to remember about zip ties is that you don't have to snap them to escape. A zip tie is nothing more than a ribbon of plastic with a small square on one end, which contains a very thin, narrow plastic strip that functions as the locking mechanism. You could spend hours trying to get enough leverage to physically snap the ribbon, and end up with sliced up wrists for your troubles.

Or, you could focus on defeating that tiny little locking strip. It's still a brute force situation, but it's one that doesn't require 200 or more pounds of pressure.

In fact, it requires nothing more than a splinter of appropriate strength. Or a very narrow piece of metal. Or a properly groomed fingernail.

None of which he had.

MacGyver didn't even remember them going on. The locking mechanism was down center line between his wrists, which was good from a leverage perspective, but it wasn't like Aydin's men had hit the local Home Depot. These were military grade restraints, and that little plastic tab could have been a metal one for all the edge of the rusty bolt on the back of the chair was doing.

At this rate he'd incubate _Clostridium tetani_ before he got out of the damn chair.

Of course, getting out of the chair was only half the equation. There was still getting out of the tent, then the camp at large. Military camp, military hardware, so he was fairly likely to find a distraction as well as transportation.

But the first thing he was going to have to find was Jack. Because he sure as hell wasn't in the tent.

Which was not to say the tent was unoccupied.

"Siktir," his companion muttered, grabbing the front of his uniform and fanning it out, trying to get a little ventilation.

Mac silently agreed.

The weather in Turkey in August was about as pleasant as one could expect for the region – it was high eighties in the day, and dropped down to a comfortable mid-sixties in the evening. Sitting in a thick, dark-toned canvas tent with its ventilation sashes closed brought that temperature up another seven to ten. Humidity was the same as most of the Mediterranean, and sweat was sluggishly trickling down his back.

MacGyver shifted, ostensibly to scratch, and kept at the ties while his guard glared at him, then went back to quietly peering out the main flap.

They spent the next twenty or so minutes in a companionable silence, in which Mac didn't intentionally try to bait his captor, and the guard didn't pound on his face. It was kind of a nice change, but he still hadn't defeated the locking tab when some of the many feet moving around outside finally crunched closer, and his guard almost guiltily snapped himself back into a pretty decent semblance of parade rest.

This wasn't a run of the mill coup operation. These men were still behaving as if they were part of a larger, organized military force. His guard's professionalism, the uniform still in good condition, his weapon squared away -

These men still had pride, believed themselves still to be part of a fighting unit.

More than money was keeping them loyal to the recently disgraced Colonel Batuhan Aydin.

The tent flap crackled as it was pushed aside, and a similar green uniform, sporting actual bars, ducked into the tent. He handed off his cover to the guard, not even looking at the man, and as he straightened, Mac found himself looking up. And up. And up.

"I have money," Mac informed the giant calmly.

The colonel's deeply tanned, deeply serious face was split with a wide grin. "I am sure you do, my American friend!" he boomed, throwing his arms wide. Mac didn't miss the way the guard beside him tried to suppress a flinch.

"You are sure that is why we took you?"

The colonel was still smiling as he eyed his prisoner up and down, and Mac tried to look innocent. "The embassy warned us the equipment would make us targets –"

But Aydin was already nodding. "Yes, yes. Another documentary trying to preserve our history, yes? Filming all our great mosques and temples before we take a page from the Syrians and destroy them all?"

Of all their covers, Mac liked their photojournalist one best. He and Jack had been treated to behind the scenes looks at some truly incredible Coptic architecture and art. His true love of history lent his angry tone more sincerity. "Is that why you were there?"

"Oh yes," the salt and pepper colonel replied, without a trace of hesitation. "We were there to destroy our own heritage, like the mindless hayvan you depict in your television shows." Still pleasant, still smiling. His teeth were shockingly white against his skin. "Is that what they told you I would say?"

The colonel clasped his thick wrists behind his back, cocking his head slightly, and he waited a beat for MacGyver to answer. Mac didn't really have anything to say to that, so he didn't, and the colonel's smile settled into something a little more serious. "We were there to secure Ambassador Chevalier and his lovely family. Oh, don't look surprised, my young American friend," he added. "You never had a chance to save them."

Mac left the wide-eyed look on his face. "Wait, there's . . . been some kind of mistake. I -"

"-was sent by your government to secure them. Yes, we are aware. But you see, you didn't have all the information." The colonel's tone became more brusque. "Erdogan remained in power because your government distributed illegal intelligence about the Peace at Home Council via your diplomatic pouches."

He paused, seeming to gather himself, and any last indicator of friendliness evaporated into tight control. "And your Ambassador Chevalier was the man who organized it all. Yes, my friend, it's true. He sent his wife, Elsa, into homes to speak with the women of our armed forces. He sent his daughter, Olivia, to games and concerts so that he could pass his illegally gained intelligence to Erdogan's men. And he used you, American, to try to escape this place without consequence."

Mac tried to keep the disappointment off his face. According to their intel, everything the colonel said was true. The State Department had already concluded that Chevalier had consulted with Erdogan and tasked US assets in Turkey to illegally surveil suspected leaders of the Gulen Movement. The coup failed, leaving Erdogan in power, and he had quickly turned on those who had backed the coup, including the disgraced colonel standing in front of him.

Whether the State Department had actually tried to assist in the coup, or sought to oppose it, was something Matty Webber had asked them explicitly not to investigate. It was a simple exfil, to bring the ambassador home where he would face trial for his part in the illegal use of US assets and for sharing classified data without authorization to US allies. Just a quick trip to Istanbul, in and out in eight hours.

A lot of bad days had started with a 'simple exfil,' come to think of it. Colonel Aydin was right. They'd been prepared for a few rogue ex-military mercenaries, not a coordinated attack from a strike team.

He and Jack had never had a chance. Mac honestly couldn't even remember how he was taken down.

"But you will keep insisting you are a journalist, yes?"

MacGyver blinked up at him, trying to look contrite. "There's no right answer to that, is there."

The colonel barked a laugh, suddenly all smiles again. "I like you, little American," he admitted. "Your friend was not so glass-jawed, is what you call it? He has been a handful. Good training exercise. You should be proud of him."

_That_ didn't sound good. It also made him wonder exactly how long he'd been out. The headache and heat notwithstanding, he was pretty sure he'd been conscious in the tent at least two hours, and there was plenty of sunlight so it was probably afternoon on the same day –

That was still plenty of time for Jack Dalton to get himself into trouble.

And if they truly had captured the ambassador and his family, that was going to make getting out a whole lot harder.

"I will make sure your superiors know that this was not a failure on your part," the colonel added, turning to his man with a short nod.

Mac tried not to tense as the soldier approached him, but the man continued to show impressive restraint, merely picking him up by his collar and shoving him forward. Standing made the heat worse – if that was possible – and Mac still didn't feel like his legs were quite steady as he was propelled out into the bright sunlight of late afternoon.

The camp was modest and well organized, what one would expect for a small team. Maybe twenty men, all of whom were in motion. The pop-up tent they'd just left was probably intended to be the colonel's office, and a longer barracks tent was being struck very efficiently by four men who looked to be only slightly smaller than their colonel. A large generator was being hooked onto the back of a military jeep, and a covered truck was being loaded with neatly packed crates.

They were pulling out.

"You see, I know how this works," Aydin was saying, gesturing as he followed Mac's gaze. "Two agents would not be sent alone. It is only a matter of time before this camp is found. There are only so many places like this – too many tourists, you know?" The colonel gusted out a sigh, surveying his men. "I had been looking forward to this day for a long time, American."

That was all the warning he had. MacGyver saw the fist coming way too late, and took it almost straight on to the torso. The colonel knew how to hit; Mac was briefly taken off his feet, and he landed hard on his knees, struggling to get a breath in.

"I am sure you can understand my disappointment," the colonel's voice continued from somewhere above, and the soldier behind him once more picked him up by his collar. MacGyver had just managed to get his mouth closed before the colonel grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head straight back. Aydin's clean-shaven face no longer looked pleasant.

"I intended to let the ambassador sweat. Let him anticipate the consequences. I intended to take a page from your book, American. To do all the things to him that your western propaganda says that we do to those who stand against us."

The colonel then followed Mac's gaze, which was currently straight up into the sky. After a moment, he waved.

"Hello, Americans!" he called into the sky, still waving, and then he roughly released Mac's head, and MacGyver understood.

"I hear the drones can focus so well they can see your eye color. Is that true?" Behind him, the guard grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward, following the colonel towards a copse of _Pinus brutia_.

"Ours are not so advanced as that. But technology is quick to improve." The colonel reached into his tac vest and pulled out a sleek black smartphone. "The camera on this phone is almost as good as the ones you and your American friend brought with you. And it costs much less."

He passed the phone over MacGyver's shoulder, to the guard behind him, but their prisoner handoff was solid. His guard didn't release his grip until the colonel had a firm hold, giving him no opportunity.

To do what, exactly, he wasn't sure. He was literally in the middle of the camp, surrounded on all sides by at least one soldier. All of them were wearing automatic rifles and sidearms. There was nowhere to go, no decent cover but the surrounding ring of pine trees, thirty yards in any direction.

There were also not very many other places to put prisoners, and the cramp in his gut had nothing to do with the hit he'd just taken.

But the phone gave Mac a little bit of hope. If the Phoenix techs had satellite surveillance up – and it was hours after exfil had been missed, so he wasn't sure exactly where the satellites were at the moment – Riley would see the phone. They had to be somewhere in Cilingoz Tabiat Park, it was too heavily forested to be anywhere else within a few hours of Istabul. There couldn't be that many phones in the area. She might be able to pin down the signal –

He glanced towards the phone again, still with his original guard, and his gaze sharpened as he watched the man head not towards the covered truck, but to a row of crates yet to be loaded.

In fact, it would be difficult to load them, as they'd been sunk halfway into the ground and angled to take the full force of the afternoon sun. They were new looking wood, long and shallow, slightly wider than a casket but a little shorter, and his jaw clenched as he realized what they were.

There were five of them. All five bore padlocks.

He'd said that he'd make the ambassador sweat -

"You didn't." Treating a foreign soldier like that, he could understand. A man's family, his wife and more importantly his twelve year old daughter –

"You do not listen well, little American."

Mac yanked his arm away from the colonel with some vague intention of doing _something_ , and a shocking pain in his right knee put him back on the ground with a shout. Lateral kick, he was lucky if it wasn't dislocated, and there was a hard shove on the back of his head, almost knocking him fully forward to the ground.

"All I wanted was a little time. A few days would have been enough. Who does not want a few days to lay in the sun?" The colonel's voice was cold. "Is that not why one comes to Turkey, American? All those tourists?"

Mac straightened as much as he was able, furiously glaring over his shoulder at the massive shadow beside him. "His family had nothing to do with it! They're innocent-"

"Do not speak to me of innocence!" It was a roar. "What does innocence mean to Erdogan?! Do not tell me that the soldiers and judges that were taken and tortured were not innocent! Do not tell me that the thousands of teachers jailed and beaten for trying to protect our youth were not innocent! You played your part, _sican_ American, and so did they!"

His guard had slipped the phone into his pocket, and Mac watched in disbelief as the soldier then reached for his rifle.

"They're worth more to you alive," he started carefully, as calmly as he could, and an enormous paw of a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Yes," the colonel agreed thoughtfully, after a pause. As if the lapse in control had never happened. "That is what your western television show would do, isn't it. Have us take our hostages with us."

The solider approached the first crate, and Mac willed him to walk right up to it, to bend down to the padlock with a key.

He didn't.

Instead, he strafed a line straight up the middle, from bottom to top. Mac was dimly aware the other soldiers had stopped their preparations, and were watching. The hand on his shoulder kept him on the ground, and Mac fought to keep his cool.

"What do you want!?" There were five crates, but only four people. That crate could have been empty, it might have been the one meant for him. He hadn't heard anything –

He might not have, if the person inside was gagged or already unconscious from the heat.

"Do you have a concussion, that you cannot hear? I want more time. Which is not something you can offer me."

The soldier lined himself up with the second box. Mac thought he could make out muffled thuds.

"Wait! Just wait, we -"

Another four bullets, right up the middle.

Mac wasn't aware that he was trying to move until his right knee wouldn't support him, and the hand on his shoulder forced him back down. He did try to break the zipties, then, he angled his wrists and used his left ulna as leverage but the restraints held, even as his wrists creaked.

"Stop! Please, you don't have to do this-"

There was a faint sound, higher pitched and child-like, and the soldier moved on to the third box. Mac's stomach lurched.

"STOP!"

The soldier ignored him.

"They are war criminals," the colonel hissed, crushing his shoulder and shaking him like a misbehaving dog. "They are not hostages, to be traded for political favors or money. They are prisoners to be executed."

Mac could no longer hear the crying sound, he couldn't hear anything but a muffled pounding that he thought was his own blood in his ears until he saw dust puffing up from the fourth crate.

And then the soldier blocked his view, and put four rounds into it.

MacGyver knew he was shouting, but he might as well have been a mute for all the good it did. The soldier turned, slinging his rifle to his back as he nodded at one of the other men standing nearby. His fellow solider tossed him something small and shiny, which he caught one-handed as he knelt by the fourth box.

Padlock keys.

They all completely ignored the fifth crate.

Pressure on his scalp had MacGyver struggling back to his feet automatically. He felt like he couldn't breathe. The colonel didn't pull him away, and didn't release his head.

"This is the part where you change the channel, yes?" The voice seemed far away. "So you sensitive Americans do not have to see the results of your actions?"

The padlock was manipulated open with a dull metallic clink, and the soldier used his foot to kick open the front panel. The hinges creaked painfully, telling the abuse they'd suffered, and all Mac could see were the soles of boots as the soldier used the smartphone to snap a picture. Then he moved away, towards the middle crate, and there in the afternoon sun, Mac saw his partner.

There was a lot of red. Jack was wearing a red shirt, it was soaked with sweat and a stain of something much darker was spreading across his belly. His back was unnaturally arched, his hands still bound behind him. Blood was making a trail down his throat, it tinged the gag in his mouth, and glistened in the bruising around his left eye. His body was shifted slightly to the right, as if he'd been trying to scrunch himself as far to one side as possible, but he was such a big guy and the box was too short for him-

Mac blinked, unable to breathe, but the image didn't change. Jack didn't move.

The solider moved on from the middle crate, and the body there was much smaller. There was sky blue mixed in with the red. Mac closed his eyes and swallowed hard against his roiling stomach. The colonel shook him sharply.

"Look, my friend. Witness that we are exactly what you think we are."

Mac refused, turning his face as far away as the grip on his head would let him, and he was rewarded with a kick to his right knee. He hissed through gritted teeth, refusing to give the Turk anything else, and the colonel pulled him to the right, half dragging him in a slow, painful procession before the crates.

"So you see there is no deception." The colonel's voice was matter-of-fact. "Photographs can be faked, but you have seen with your own eyes."

Chevalier had been placed in the second box, between his wife and daughter. All gagged, but the crates were close enough that he must have heard their struggles. Close enough to know that they were there beside him, suffering what he was suffering.

None of them had survived.

Mac swallowed again, trying to force his throat back into some semblance of usable. His voice still shook. "You son of a bitch."

"Do you not have the death penalty in your country, American?"

Death penalty.

Those people were dead. The ambassador, his family. His daughter.

Jack.

They were dead. There was nothing anyone could do that would make them not dead anymore.

Mac's brain stalled on the concept, then flinched away from that reality, latching onto anything else it could find. His knee twinged painfully, and that was good. Physical pain was good. It meant he was still alive. They were dead, and he was going to be following them if he didn't do something about it, right now.

"So now what." Showing him off to the satellite, making him witness the executions, it all reeked of taking hostages. If he wasn't going to take hostages, why was he doing this? And if he was, why not take a diplomatic family? People who were no threat, no trouble to men like this?

Why keep him alive?

"Ah, you wish for your own bullet?" The colonel's voice was keen, and Mac refused to look at him. One of his men called over something in Turkish, and Aydin grunted an assent and continued to half-drag MacGyver towards the line of pines. "Perhaps I will not give it to you. What do you think of that?"

Mac had started to shake. Rage was narrowing his peripheral vision. "You don't really think you're getting away with this."

"Yes. In fact, it is the only way we are 'getting away,' as you say. There is not room on the helicopter for so many."

It was starting to get harder to focus, but Mac could make out a clearing beyond the line of pines. Probably the LZ for the helo. He glanced back, trying to get a bead on the soldier that had -

Had -

His brain shied away again, but his eyes picked the guy out of the group. He was still there, by the crates, dumping liquid onto them from a five gallon container.

Gasoline, or something equivalent.

"You too are a war criminal," the colonel informed him, leading them through the line of trees. He had to focus to keep his footing, but Mac barely noticed the burning sensation in his knee. A twin-engine Bell UH-1H – a Huey - was waiting for them, pilot already running pre-flight, and MacGyver found himself shoved once more to his knees as the rotors began to turn.

"But you are not so hard to control as your American friend. You are clearly the analyst, not the agent. And I am in need of an American analyst. This is the reason you still live."

Aydin stepped away, bending his head to confer with one of his men, and for the first time since he'd come to in the tent, Mac was relatively free. But he couldn't move. His hands were shaking badly, he could feel the plastic gouging the cuts in his wrists. His fingertips were ice. His stomach was still roiling, and he felt like he couldn't quite catch his breath.

_Shock. This is the beginning of shock._

"Get up."

This time he actually needed the help, and the soldier that had come to brief the colonel dragged them towards the helicopter. It was in standard configuration, room for thirteen passengers, and Mac was hauled into the rearmost compartment, away from the pilot and with an aluminum bench between him and the cockpit. He was roughly shoved into the middle seat, and he had to lean forward a bit to make room for his hands, still bound behind him.

The seats were canvas, nothing useful for cutting plastic, and they covered the aluminum framing, leaving him no sharp edges and no way to make a shim.

His new guard glared at him a moment, a rather stout fellow not too much taller than MacGyver himself but easily twice the weight. His uniform was missing anything useful like a name patch or a specialty, but his sidearm was mounted for a left-hand pull.

Mac let the shock he was feeling show in his posture, and after a moment the short soldier turned to face the loading door. MacGyver launched himself, using his left leg, and shoulder-checked the soldier, hard, into the webbing beside the loading door. He used his momentum to do a pirouette that would make any ballroom dancer jealous, yanking the nine mil from the soldier's holster, and he used his hip to push off from the man, shoving him into the wall for the second time.

The locking square of his zipties was right between his wrists, which put it in exactly the wrong place. In this case, Mac didn't care. He manipulated the gun so that it was pointing straight at the floor, shoved the muzzle against the edge of the plastic ribbon on his left wrist, thumbed off the safety, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet skimmed his wrist more deeply than he'd intended, but it did the trick, and his involuntarily flinch was enough to snap what remained of the plastic. He threw a right elbow backwards without looking, assuming the stocky soldier had gotten his feet back under him, and he got a solid connection and a grunt of pain.

Mac lurched across the back of the aircraft, intent on exiting the left side, closest to the woods. He braced his right knee as much as he could but it still gave when he hit the ground, and he rolled to his back, targeting the spinning rotor atop the helicopter. It was now at idle speed, which was plenty fast and loud, and MacGyver got two rounds off before soldiers started piling on top of him.

The gun was taken away; he barely had time to pull his finger from the trigger cage and narrowly avoided having it broken. He took a hit to the mouth and things got blurry for a moment. Rough hands pinned his wrists, then there was the too-tight pinch of those god-damned zipties, and after a few powerful waves of disorientation his felt his butt hit a canvas seat.

He blindly swung his hands, this time secured in front of him, and someone punched him in the side of the head. Mac almost blacked out, bent double, and it was a long time before he was sure the roaring in his ears and the movement he felt was actually happening. He raised watering eyes to the still-open loading door to see them banking sharply over the clearing. Black smoke was rising from the center of the camp, and the truck and jeep were nowhere to be seen.

Mac was sandwiched between two massive men, neither of whom he recognized, and they'd had the foresight to strap him in, so bailing was not an option. It didn't matter; they hadn't even come fully out of the turn before a high pitched alarm cut through all the roaring. Mac felt a brief, hollow flash of satisfaction. Jack would be proud of him for hitting a target roughly the thickness of an extension cord.

And Jack would be furious with him for getting taken back _onto_ the helicopter he'd just guaranteed was going to fall out of the sky.

-M-

I really had intended to get a little further, I know I don't care for overly dramatic cliffies and I didn't actually mean to write one. I had hoped to cover a little of the aftermath, but it's late, and I'm tired, so I figured I'd share what I have now and see what you guys think!


	2. Chapter 2

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Burning like he had never felt stabbed through his belly, and Jack Dalton couldn't help his choked gasp. He almost sucked sodden cotton straight down his throat.

Mercifully, a diesel engine rumbled to life about the same time, and he clamped his jaw around the handkerchief and tried to ride it out.

Shit. _Shit._ He'd lost time. Not much, though, not if the pain was any indication.

Jack did everything he could to remain still. He was sucking air through his nose like a drowning man, it was painfully loud to his ears but there was nothing he could do about it. It was too soon to check the damage, and frankly he didn't want to know. Kicking the living shit out of his sweat box had bought him a little bit of vertical space, but obviously not enough.

Obviously.

Something strong was assaulting his nose, and it took him too long to recognize the combination of blood and gasoline.

_This day gets better and better._

Shot up _and_ doused in gas. These guys were definitely off the Christmas list.

There were footsteps, indistinct under the growl of the diesel engine, and there was something else, something pesky on the edge of his hearing. Jack couldn't help a whimper as a slightly deeper breath told him just how bad off he was.

So much for avoiding the rounds.

It was the only plan he could come up with. There wasn't enough space to kick the top of the box totally off, and the soldier wasn't dilly-dallying. He bought himself maybe two inches vertically, which had been just enough to get him onto his left hip. The hotbox was too fucking short, so he'd stuck his left leg across the space and shoved himself as hard against the right wall as he could. He'd wedged his head up against the top of the box, face up, staring at the slats until the shadow was just above him, and then he'd sucked it in as best he could and prayed.

Well. A Jack Dalton prayer. Hell, it had worked in the Bermuda triangle.

Then again, it had worked _after_ he'd been shot off a cliff.

Also, it had been Mac that had saved his ass that time.

 _Not that you didn't try, buddy._ He'd heard the kid loud and clear, and it made him feel just a tiny bit better. Mac hadn't been sitting in a hot box with the rest of them. There was a good chance he was still alive.

The footsteps were receding, and Jack dared to shift his head from where it was wedged against the top of the sweat box, peering just over the lip of the wood. Something on his throat pulled and stung but it was nothing compared to his gut, he ignored it for the time being as he made out a covered truck, about ten yards away.

With his head raised, he also identified that nagging rumble as the sound of a chopper in pre-flight.

_Mac._

The jackass he could thank for his new belly button had walked to the opposite end of the row of crates, tossing a regulation gas can into the back of a jeep, and Jack slithered back into his box when the soldier started to turn. The wood wall angled his head up, and Jack finally got a look at himself.

Then he started swearing into his gag.

He'd been laying on his left side when that bullet had hit. At least one of the holes in his shirt was on the right side, and given the way that stain was spreading, the slug had gone straight across. He couldn't make out an exit hole from his angle, but he knew it was there.

Goddamned thing had slit him open like a roast pig on the fourth of July.

Shifting brought his attention to his left leg, which he had to assume was hit. His black tactical pants were as soaked through as his shirt, and gave him no indication of how bad. He could wiggle his foot and raise it a little, so wherever the bullet was, it wasn't going to kill him immediately.

Nope, being set on fire with his guts hanging out of his belly was what was going to kill him.

Jack felt his face split itself into a painful grin, but he didn't dare laugh. Getting up with a huge slice in his abdominal wall was going to be a hell of a trick. It didn't help matters that his hands were still behind his back, and he had no way of knowing if the leg would hold.

But hey, at least they'd disinfected it for him.

Two gunshots rang out, in rapid succession, about fifty yards away. Jack froze, then raised his head up and risked another glance over the crate.

The soldier at the end of the row had drawn a weapon, and his left hand was at his comms. He was looking in the direction of the chopper.

_Aw crap._

After a few moments, the soldier holstered his sidearm, and a few seconds after that, the covered truck clunked into gear and started to pull away.

_Dammit, Mac, you better still be alive, or so help me God I will throttle you myself._

Only one way to find out.

He sucked a couple deep breaths – okay, well, deeper anyway – through his nose, and listened for the soft, low pitched roar that would mean the gasoline had been ignited. It came faster than he was expecting, and Jack gave it a two count before he used his head to lever himself up onto his left shoulder. It gave him just enough play in his wrists to throw his right elbow over the edge of the crate, which he followed with his right leg, and then he braced himself and heaved.

It wasn't bad.

It was _way_ the hell worse than bad.

Jack shouted through the gag, trying to remain curled over as tightly as he could as he rolled down the open lid and away from the crate, using his forehead and knees to keep his stomach off the ground. He made two revolutions and landed again on his left side, and he blinked hard against the black that rushed over him. He couldn't get enough air.

_Jack, you handsome devil, you pass out now you're as good as dead._

There was a roaring in his ears, which he assumed was fire, and his stomach burned like it'd been lit up, but a few breaths later he started seeing around the spots, and saw that he'd gotten enough distance.

Just enough to not get flambéed, but not so far that Aydin's goon could see him over the flames.

He scrabbled around with his hands, easing himself over as he searched for a rock, a nail, freakin' _anything_ to get those ties off, and he realized just how numb they'd gotten. His left arm was starting to ache like crazy, and Jack rolled further onto his back and picked up his head incredulously to glare at the bloodstain on his lower left bicep.

Picking up his head pulled at something on his throat, just under his chin.

_Are you fucking kidding me? Every goddamn bullet hit?! I have four fucking holes in me right now?!_

He swallowed experimentally, thinking he must have already done that, and nothing felt out of place. Just a nick, then.

Still. It was the principle of the thing.

Jack rolled himself onto his right arm, which seemed fine, and put his back to the fire, stretching out his hands and trying to get some circulation back into them. Pins and needles quickly gave way to dexterity, and after a little more searching he found a believably rough piece of gravel and went to work.

He never actually heard the helo take off, couldn't hear anything over the fire, but he did see it dimly through the smoke. A huey, standard issue for the Turkish army. No registration number. He was a bright red target on a patch of gravel and grass, but as the aircraft cleared the line of pines it blew the smoke right over him, bringing with it confirmation that at least one of those hotboxes had still been occupied when they'd been torched.

Then the huey was gone.

Jack closed his eyes and swore again. Nothing to be done about it now.

It took longer than he would have liked to saw through the ties, and he only bothered to cut one side. He eased himself onto his back, glaring at the ugly-ass green bracelet on his right wrist for a second before pulling off the gag.

Black spots were starting to crowd out his peripheral vision.

Jack relaxed for a moment, covering his eyes with his right arm just to get the goddamn sun out of his face, and he felt a completely inappropriate urge to laugh.

_Don't do it, Dalton. Pull your shit together man._

After all, he might not be the only one lying on the ground bleeding out right now.

The mental image of Mac mirroring his pose was enough to snap his eyes open, and Jack set to work untying the knot on his gag.

_Hang in there, buddy. I'm comin'._

The wound to his left arm was just a bad graze. It burned like a two dollar pistol but it hadn't hit anything major, and the gag was just enough material to bind it. Jack totally ignored his gut – pulling the tee shirt out of that gash was beyond what he could endure and he knew it. It was damn serious but only bleeding sluggishly, and there was nothing dry enough or big enough to wrap it.

The bullet in his left leg was a problem. It was in his thigh, just above his knee. He'd already used his belt getting to know a few of Aydin's men, and they hadn't been polite enough to give it back. He didn't have the strength to rip his pants, so he tore off his left sleeve instead, braced himself, and painfully pulled his left leg up until he could grab his tac pants with his right hand. Then he took a few shallow breaths.

"C'mon, Jack, you got this. You got this." His voice sounded weak even to him. Jack swallowed around a sandpaper tongue, then let his head drop back to the ground with a groan. "Oh, this is gonna hurt like hell, Mac, you know how much this is gonna hurt?"

Mac didn't answer.

Jack moaned again, then he picked up his head, pulled the pants material taut, and shoved the wadded, thoroughly soaked cotton as far into the wound as he could.

He woke up what he hoped was only a couple minutes later. He could taste acrid smoke and feel some serious heat on the left side of his face. Jack stifled a cough, curling onto his right side with a groan.

_Well, I was right._

Gingerly, he wrapped his left arm around his gut, laying his forearm as gently as he could across the gash. A few careful breaths and he rolled onto his knees. From there, it was just a simple matter of actually standing up.

If you could call it that.

His left leg held. He wasn't sure how the hell it was doing that, but he knew if he hit the ground he was never going to get back up. The movement in his gut was just _wrong_ , he could feel the lip of the wound shifting where things weren't supposed to shift. The burn of the gasoline was starting to wear off – which he knew damn well wasn't good – and it was being replaced by a sharp gnawing sensation.

He headed for the closest trees, not stopping until he was several yards into the woods. They were pine trees, so not the most comfortable, but they were bare trunks stretching forty feet into the air, with wide, high branches that created a cool shade, and more importantly, cover. He hadn't heard the chopper since it had left, and he raised fuzzy eyes back to the clearing, where the crates and their contents were still burning.

His eyes strayed to the box next to his, and he stared at it until it got too blurry. Then he zeroed in on the direction the huey had taken off and started walking.

"Come on, Jack, you've . . . been through worse than this. Remember . . . Bangkok." He chuckled soundlessly, wincing as his diaphragm pulled at his abdominal muscles. He stumbled hard into a tree, catching himself on his right shoulder and leaning there for a moment.

"Shit, don't laugh, don't laugh. Mac, I swear to you, if I walk . . . all the way over there . . . to find your skinny ass dead . . . I will . . . I'll . . . oh hell, Mac. Don't be . . . dead brother."

His eyesight was more than half gone by the time he pinballed his way to the clearing, and he stumbled up to a nearby tree and wrapped his right arm around it, hugging it for dear life. A few breaths did nothing to clear his head, and he blinked owlishly at the bright sunlight, and the golden, flattened grasses.

Mac wasn't there.

No one was.

Yellows were starting to get too bright, contrast was going out the window, but all Jack felt was bone-deep relief.

Mac wasn't there.

Which meant Mac was on the chopper.

Which meant Mac was still alive. It didn't mean he was okay, but it meant he was alive.

Jack whooped, digging his forehead into the trunk of the tree. "Whew, brother, you scared me for a minute." He stayed like that, him and the tree, balanced perfectly together, and then his hip popped, and he slithered down the trunk to land softly on the ground. It jarred his gut, but not as much as he thought it would, and he relaxed, letting the pain slowly ebb.

He figured bark had scraped up his face, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It smelled like pine, now, instead of death, and the shade was cool.

Damn, but he was thirsty.

He thought about it a minute, and no one was more surprised than he was when he opened his eyes again, and found it was still light outside. It was darker, the sun was probably an hour from going down.

Or his eyesight was just that bad.

_Come on, Jack. You're buzzard bait out here._

He let his head roll along the trunk of the tree, looking around. He figured they had to be in that giant ass national park between Istanbul and Kirklareli, which put him about sixty clicks southeast of the Bulgarian border. There was nothing but heavily forested area between him and that border. No major towns unless he headed north towards the Black Sea.

No infrastructure. No power. No phones.

Way more ground than he could cover.

Jack let his head roll up, pulling on the cut on his throat, but the wind had been moving east, and he didn't see any smoke. Once the crates went up, there shouldn't have been much else to burn. The fires should have gone out long ago.

If someone was going to check out the smoke, they'd already done it and gone.

Still, it wasn't like gravel just happened. The camp was legit a campsite. There had to be a road out, the one the truck and jeep took.

Jack glanced down, where his left arm was still cradling his stomach, and he considered whether it was worth the effort.

Phoenix would have been looking for them. They were half a day late for exfil. If Riley was on the satellites – and he knew his girl was – they'd at least have tried to track the vehicles that had taken them and the package. Phoenix should have been able to locate the camp. If they had –

_Boy, you're forgetting a little detail there, ain't ya?_

If they had, they'd seen him shot dead. And set on fire. The smoke might have covered up the angle, they might not have seen him crawl away.

Phoenix might be after Mac, but the best he could hope for was a secondary team to recover his body. They'd be flying in from the US, that was a thirteen hour nonstop flight, not counting the time it would take to get a car and drive back from Istanbul.

Jack looked at his gut again, wincing as he tried to roll his arm away. Clotted blood pulled and he stopped immediately, barely suppressing a retch. He breathed through his nose until the worst of it passed.

Nope. He was not going to make thirteen hours out here. He'd be dead before morning, shock and exposure would get him faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind.

_Jack, buddy, the only one gonna save you is you._

"You up for this?" he asked no one in particular. The tree behind him didn't reply, but it did provide him a very solid bracing point, and Jack groaned and slowly gathered his legs under him.

-M-

"I'm sorry, we must have a bad connection. I thought I heard you say 'no'?"

The blonde woman on the monitor managed to look cross and apologetic all at the same time. "Matilda, you're well aware of the political climate. We're already looking at a serious diplomatic issue with assets tasked in the region –"

Matty Webber put her hands on her hips, her cream-colored suit still remarkably unwrinkled. "Yes, that's why you tasked mine."

Riley tried to ignore the power play, rubbing her dry eyes and trying to shake off the cobwebs. It was almost 4:30 in the morning. Another all nighter; ops on the other side of the world didn't care what time it was in LA.

And Matty was starting to get just a _little_ crabby.

"That's true. We tasked them with getting Chevalier out, not captured by forces loyal to the Gulan."

Motion to her right caught her eye, and Riley glanced up to see Bozer easing through the door bearing two Styrofoam cups and an _oh shit_ expression.

She thinned her lips and raised an eyebrow at him. _Oh yeah. That happened._

"That's because someone withheld that Colonel Aydin was former Special Warfare Department and had a team of _Bordo Berelilier_ at his beck and call. Hmm, I wonder who would have done something like that?" Matty's tone made it clear that no, she didn't wonder, and her opponent at the State Department drew herself up stiffly in her chair.

"We passed all relevant information –"

"A Maroon Beret strike team is relevant –"

"That information was not in my possession at the time," Director Bosch tried, and Riley wondered if Matty was finally going to have that aneurysm.

Bozer quickly padded across the back of the office, his socked feet making not a whisper on the grey tile or rug, and Riley gratefully accepted the coffee he handed her, wrapping her fingers around the warmth. She knew she probably looked like a hobo, curled up on the couch under a fleece throw, but neither Matty nor Director Bosch had said anything to her, and she decided she didn't really give a shit.

"So," Boze staged whispered, taking the cushion beside her, "I take it there's still no backup?"

She mutely shook her head. Jack and Mac had been in that camp now for over five hours. She had it up on one of the monitors of the massive screen in Director Webber's office, but she preferred to watch it on her laptop. It was pretty clear they were packing up shop. If one of their allies in Turkey or neighboring Bulgaria didn't get their asses over there right now, things were about to get a lot more complicated.

"C'mon, Mac," she muttered, staring at the pixelated green camouflaged tent.

As if he'd heard her, three shapes emerged from the tent, and Riley passed her coffee to Bozer without even looking, trying to sharpen the image. They only had this satellite for another ten minutes, and then there'd be a forty second blackout before the next one was in position. They were already right on the edge of range.

She got a small resolution boost, and highlighted the grid containing the people as they came to a stop. Nothing happened for a moment, then there was a brief struggle. The image froze a moment while all the data compiled, and then the box she'd highlighted rendered, and she was looking at MacGyver's face.

He was staring right at her, grimacing like he could actually see her, and after a second, the man in front of him followed his gaze.

Riley blinked, glancing up at the big monitor, and the man – her facial recognition software got a positive ID on _Aydin, Batuhan_ – waved at her. They had good enough resolution to make out that he said –

"Hello Americans," Matilda growled. "I guess it's safe to say he knows we've located him."

The colonel released MacGyver with a rough shake, and they pushed him out of frame.

Riley backed the grid out, waiting impatiently as it rendered the next area. The view looked like they were about twenty feet above the men, now, and the colonel passed something over to the soldier holding Mac.

She hit a hotkey and snapped a picture, then minimized it to another corner while the men approached the sweatboxes. Riley had superimposed names over the boxes when they'd started being occupied, and she tried hard to ignore that one of them bore _Dalton, Jack_ in thin red text.

Her picture rendered – the colonel had handed over a Samsung Galaxy S5.

"Good choice, dirtbag," she muttered, bringing up another window and re-initializing her connection to the cellular grid in the area. Samsung's IMEIs for phones in Turkey typically started with M, so she started scrolling down the list of connected devices.

Beside her, Bozer gasped, and she focused back on the main screen in time to see an armed soldier walk up to the crate marked _Chevalier, Anton_ and fire into it.

Matty didn't react. Director Bosch had covered her mouth with her hand, and her image flinched when the soldier strode over to the crate marked _Chevalier, Olivia_.

MacGyver was struggling with the colonel, and then puffs of dust pattered across the lid of the crate.

Beside her, Bozer had slowly climbed to his feet, but Riley couldn't take her eyes off the screen, even when the red letters that spelled _Jack_ were superimposed on the soldier.

"No," she said calmly, a flat denial. That was not going to happen, because Mac was-

Dust flew up in a line, straight down the middle like the others.

Riley stared at the monitor another second. That couldn't possibly have been what it looked like. They had no intel that the colonel would go to all the trouble to kidnap the Chevaliers only to kill them.

He knew they were watching via satellite.

It had to be some kind of trick.

Bozer stumbled a few steps away, but Riley ignored him, isolating the grid as the guard fumbled with the lid of the crate. The software froze as the image compiled, and then the image rendered.

Riley stared at it, frowning, and someone – Bozer - finally said something.

". . . Jack -"

She shook her head, softly at first, then more vehemently. "No. It's a trick. They must have had some kind of blood packs, they rigged little explosives on the lids of the crates – you do it all the time, Boze. It's just special effects."

The rendering was pixelating a little, but it was still in real time, and she watched the fake blood pool in the hollow of Jack's throat.

It couldn't be real.

"Why – why would he do that now?" She left the window on the main screen but toggled back to the cellular grid. Maybe she could get audio, hear what they were saying-

"I . . . I'm sorry, Matilda. I need to brief the Secretary."

The State Department's screen went dark, but Riley didn't pay any attention. The image was getting too pixelated, she had maybe two minutes left. She backed it out to a fifty foot view, not missing that the other people, in the other crates, had gotten a similar treatment.

It was smart. Depending on how close Mac was, it might have fooled him too.

"Riley-"

"I can't get the phone," she cut the director off. "Cellular signal is disabled. There's not enough Bluetooth infrastructure there to get a connection-"

"Riley."

She glanced at the feed, it looked like Mac was getting dragged away towards the chopper. Of course. They pack him off so he doesn't realize they're still alive.

"I . . . am not falling for it," she muttered, taking a snap as the image pixelated further. A solider had started to approach the crates again, and it was too hard to see what he was doing, but the screencap rendered, and –

And that was a can of gasoline.

Riley paused, watching in disbelief as the soldier walked along the row of crates. It could be water, in the gas can, just to sell it to Mac –

She lost resolution, and no amount of coaxing would get the image back up. They were out of range.

"Forty seconds till we're back on," she said, surprised that her voice sounded so tight. There was nothing to worry about. Well, Jack and Mac were still in enemy hands, and now Mac thought Jack was dead, so –

Riley looked up and almost jumped out of her skin. Matty was standing literally right in front of her. The lines around the director's mouth were soft.

"Riley," she said.

Riley just stared at her for a few beats. Nothing else happened. "That's my name," she confirmed.

A flash of something crossed Matilda's face, and she placed a well manicured hand on the monitor of the laptop. "Why don't you go take a minute."

Riley shook her head with a half-smile. "I don't need a minute. I only need about thirty more seconds –"

". . . hey . . ." Bozer sank onto the couch beside her, and she gave him a flat stare of disbelief, smile still on her face.

"Oh, come on, you don't really think –" She glanced between the two of them. "No one believes that was real? The colonel literally waved at us. That was all a show, for us, to get us off his back."

Matty gave her one of her understanding nods, the kind she would give Bozer or Jack when they were being slow, and Riley felt the smile drain off her face. They really thought –

"Look, I'll show you." Seven seconds left on the counter, and she typed the GPS coordinates from the last screenshot into the satellite. She didn't look at either of them as the large window popped up, black as the satellite came into range, in three, two, one –

The top edge of the picture began to render, the same treeline, though from a slightly different angle. A weird black blob started to take shape, but it all compiled pretty quickly, and then they were staring at churning black smoke where the crates had been.

The covered truck was nowhere to be seen, and the jeep was just about to hit the treeline.

Riley blinked, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. It was –

No. They'd had a forty second blackout. They could have grabbed everyone and put them in the trucks, the Turkish military knew how satellites worked as well as the next government –

But then how did they get the crates to go up so fast, if it was water and not gas.

Matty slipped the laptop right out of her hands, and she just sat there, frozen, staring at the main screen. There was a lot of smoke, she could make out the flames below but nothing else, and then Matty panned out, bringing them to a four hundred foot view, and the cloud of black smoke turned tiny.

"Bozer."

Someone put a hand on her shoulder, which she ignored, still staring at the monitor. That couldn't be real.

Motion near the south-west corner of the grid caught her eye, and she realized it was the helicopter. It too had a tiny little trail of black clouds behind it, and before Matty could input the right commands, it seemed to disappear into the green.

Riley stood, snatching the laptop back and zooming in on the grid. It took a few moments, and even when it rendered all they saw was foliage, with telltale grey-ish smoke filtering up through the canopy.

"Did . . . did the helicopter just crash?" Bozer's voice was very small.

-M-

Here I thought I was doing a good job, then I realized that I just left you with another cliffie. Well, I guess it's the same cliffie, different POV. Maybe I should stop giving authors crap for that, because it's a lot harder than I thought to wrap something up without one.

Thanks for the comments! Nothing like getting real time feedback for your NaNoWriMo. Keep 'em coming, and please let me know if you catch any mistakes.


	3. Chapter 3

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

It was empty.

Jack stared at the dirty plastic for a few moments, but he just couldn't find the energy to be pissed. Hell, he couldn't even smile.

Of course he'd found the only ranger's station in walking distance, and the first aid kit was fucking empty.

That was the story of his life. Jack Wyatt Dalton, died in Turkey because the god damned Turkish Park Service, or whatever the fuck they called themselves, couldn't stock a god damned ranger's station with one fucking first aid kit.

Huh. He did still have enough energy to get mad.

Not real mad, though. Not super creative mad.

Dalton let the empty case fall, bracing his right hand on the dusty wooden table and raising grainy eyes back to the medicine cabinet. A mouse nest, looked like, and a rusty, single blade razor.

Jack pressed his lips together and considered it, but not really. No way was he using a rusty ol' razor blade to cut a bullet out of his thigh without a god-damned first aid kit on hand.

"All I wanted . . . was an aspirin," he muttered, but the cabinet didn't magically provide him any, and he didn't bother to slap the cabinet closed. He just let his chin drop to his chest.

"Help me out, man." He closed his eyes and kept his left arm rigidly still. "I'm dyin' out here."

He didn't know who he was talking to. Mac wasn't there. He had no coms. There was no radio, which had been his first hope. It had been looted ages ago. No electricity, no water. Not even a chair. Just a rickety old table and an empty first aid kit.

Maybe Mac could make something out of that, god love him, but he was the only one.

It was dark, and the temperature had been dropping rapidly. If he didn't get a fire going, he was dead.

Even if he did get a fire going, he was dead.

Jack forced his eyes open as his right knee started to buckle, and he shoved himself upright, looking to see if at least there was a stove.

There wasn't. There was a pipe in the wall, presumably where a stove once was. It was in the corner with the world's saddest rubber ducky.

Jack stared at the yellow blob for some time, but eventually came to the conclusion that it was actually there. He shuffled over to the corner, which was a good place to lean, and slowly slid down the wall.

Dying out there or in here was six of one, half a dozen of the other. At least he had a rubber ducky to talk to.

He found a comfortable place to put his head, and addressed his new friend. "Name's Jack. Mind if I join you?"

The duck didn't say anything, which he found disappointing in a remote kind of way.

"Don't s'ppose you got a satphone on ya?"

The duck didn't.

"How 'bout a beer?"

He figured if the rubber ducky had one, it should probably just drink it itself. It was curiously misshapen, and Jack dragged his right arm out of his lap, fumbling around until he'd finally picked up his little friend.

He stared at it a long time.

"You are not a duck," he told it.

The faded yellow flare gun had the decency not to respond. It was probably older than he was, and Jack struggled to pop it open one-handed. Eventually he just gave up. Wasn't like there was a flare in it.

And even if there was, wasn't like it'd work.

And even if it did, wasn't like it was going to do a lot of good inside a shitty ol' ranger's station. He'd have to get up and go outside.

. . . or not.

Jack stared at the wide, round barrel, still not quite far enough gone to point what might be a loaded firearm at his face. But a flare to the face might be better than getting found by one of the wolves out there. He had a feeling they were following him, not quite sure if he was predator or prey.

Pretty sure he knew which though.

Jack let the flare gun clatter back onto the floor, and wondered if he could just fall asleep despite the pain.

 _Unconscious is not the same as asleep, Jack_ , Mac quipped.

"Yes it is," he muttered, just to be contrary. Close enough, anyway.

Probably less scary than a flare to the face, anyway. It would probably be a shitty flare, and just take out an eye or something.

The gnawing pain in his gut swelled sharply, and Jack groaned, hugging his belly and trying to breathe through it.

Yeah. He'd been shot enough today. That wasn't going to work.

The pain eventually eased a little, and he uncurled himself, leaning his head back against the wall. He was right under one of the two grimy windows.

Mac would suggest that he break the glass and fire the flare from the floor. That way, he was in a building, away from the wolves, and if someone did see a flare in the area, they'd probably check out the ranger's station.

Mac was a determined little optimist most of the time.

Even when he knew it would hurt.

Jack sighed. "You serious, brother?"

Mac would not just be serious. He'd be earnest about it.

"Dude, I hope you're okay."

Mac would nod. Even if it was horseshit.

_If you don't do something right now, Jack ol' boy, you're gonna die._

He thought about that long and hard. Then he grunted.

"Dammit," he growled, at no one in particular, and he picked up the flare gun. Raising his arm that high was going to hurt like hell. He tried to offset it by bracing his right foot, shoving himself up the wall just a little, and luckily the glass was just as shitty as everything else in the cabin and it shattered first try.

Before he lost his footing or his nerve, Jack shoved his right hand out the window, turning his thumb against the wooden frame of the windowpane so he'd be aimed reasonably skyward, and he pulled the trigger.

And damned if the thing didn't fire.

He didn't see where the flare ended up, or what color it was, or whether or not it just hit a tree and went out. He slid the few inches back to the floor, grimacing, and paid his dues for the movement.

Hell, unless whoever found him could airlift him to a Level I trauma center half an hour away it wouldn't make a damn difference. He knew why the pain was changing, getting worse. He was looking at massive internal injury.

Jack shook his head, just a little.

"I'm sorry, brother. Think I'm about to let you down."

Not that Mac didn't already think that. Hell, kid probably thought it was his fault somehow.

Ah, crap. And Riles. As soon as the Phoenix team only found three corpses, they'd expand the search. Riley would blame herself, for not finding him faster, for not getting their team to the right place in time –

"Oh, kiddo." He was too dehydrated to tear up, and too sore for the ragged sob that tried to rattle out of his throat. "I am so sorry to leave you again."

Bozer and Matty and Cage would take care of her. Take care of 'em both. Take care of Diane.

Probably a good thing Sarah was married. The corner of his mouth turned up, thinking about all the things that woman was gonna do to Batuhan Aydin over this.

And Matty. Jesus, she was gonna be pissed.

They'd get Mac out.

They had to.

Yeah.

"Hey."

Jack tried to focus half-opened eyes, not quite sure when they'd closed. A silhouette was standing in the twilight of the doorframe, and as he watched, it stepped inside and pulled off a peaked aviator's cap.

And Jack smiled.

"Hey dad."

-M-

She didn't often sit at the desk. One, because of her stature; there was just no elegant way to dismount an office chair whose seat was at your armpit. Two, because it made it very hard to not be still, and if there was one thing she didn't like, it was being still.

Her mother called it 'the wiggles'. Matilda called it 'get the fuck out of my way and do your damn job.'

There was no hope of sitting at that desk anytime in the near future.

"Director Webber, it's out of our hands –"

"Oh?" She cocked her head to the side. "Foreign affairs are no longer under the purview of the State Department?"

Director Bosch had obviously had a shower and a nap since they'd last spoken, and gracefully pretended she hadn't heard. "A military aircraft went down in a national park. Of course the Turkish authorities are going to take lead in the investigation."

Matty rolled her eyes. "And I'm not disputing that. What I am disputing is the fact that we don't have a single asset on the ground that could tag along? I had an agent on that bird, and you don't even know if they've found any bodies yet?"

The director of the CIA was in another window, thumbing through a folder on the matter, but when she didn't immediately reply, Matilda pursed her lips and nodded.

"I see. So a US ambassador _and his family_ are kidnapped and executed by Turkish rebels, and you're telling me that no one thinks it's strange that there's not so much as a Marine to escort our diplomats home?"

Director Bosch sighed. "You're not asking for a military escort. You're asking for a full recon effort. We can't create the appearance of taking sides here. Erdogan's government is advising not going public until we have to, to avoid unnecessarily inflaming tensions."

"Oh, you're not "appearing" to take a side." She used air quotes. "You have overtly taken a side."

The CIA director raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment, and Bosch's expression went frosty. "Just what are you insinuating?"

Maddie allowed her disbelief to be written all over her face. "Oh, Director, I'm not insinuating anything."

There was a quiet knock on her door, and Matty muted the screens with a loud sigh. "What."

There was no immediate answer, and she turned to glare over her shoulder. It was an analyst, a dark-haired one. She really needed to start remembering their names. The woman opened her mouth, but then closed it and took a tentative step into the office.

Matty snapped her fingers. "Today."

"Oh – yes." The kid – she couldn't have been more than twenty, Matty made yet another mental note to take a personal look into their recruiters – stepped forward smartly, trying to watch the women on the screen without appearing to be looking at them. "You asked us to flag if Jack Dalton or Angus MacGyver's aliases appeared on social media."

Matty waited a beat, then cocked her head to the other side, and the analyst cleared her throat. "Uh, yes. We found a posting on a Turkish website sympathetic to the Peace at Home Council."

She held out a tablet almost apologetically, and Matty took it impatiently, noticing in her peripheral vision that her colleagues were also being distracted by their own people.

The site was in Turkish, which she hadn't brushed up on, but a picture told a thousand words. Four of them, in this case, with their names spelled out in English.

The name she'd asked to be flagged was highlighted in yellow. Ethan Darby, Photographer/Videographer.

Matty carefully schooled her features. It wasn't like she hadn't seen this image before. She'd actually seen it being taken.

"I take it they're celebrating?"

The analyst licked her bottom lip. "Uh, yes ma'am. Anton Chevalier was widely believed to have aided Erdogan in retaining power and identifying coup sympathizers in the days and weeks after the failed attempt."

She scrolled quickly through the rest of the site. "What do you mean, widely?"

"Oh – only within the rebel community." The analyst paused. "And the nation's youth communities."

. . . and there it was.

Matilda took a deep breath, holding it a moment before letting it go. "Thank you. Oh, and Lisa?"

"Liz," she corrected with a smile.

"Liz. Make sure that these images – one in particular – are available only to staff and analysts working directly on this op. They are not to be shared with anyone else. I expect you to see to it personally."

The analyst nodded, halting. "Yes, director."

Matty gave her a warning look, then turned and tapped the mute button on the codec. Her compatriots were also back on camera, and Director Bosch looked a little green.

"I presume you all heard the same news I did? That the Gulan are publicly taking credit for the assassination of a US diplomatic family and a US journalist?" She waved the tablet.

Short nods.

"Excellent." Matty discarded the tablet onto her desk and clasped her fingers. "So now that it's public knowledge, and Erdogan can no longer squash it, can we _please_ get on with involving ourselves in the investigation?"

Director Bosch accepted another piece of paper, scanning it a moment. Her lips pulled back in a tight smile that didn't touch her eyes.

"The Secretary thanks you for your assistance, Director Webber, and extends his sincere sympathy for the loss of your agent. At this time, he is advising you to stand down and we will be turning the matter over to NATO. Commander Walbright will be overseeing the 16th Division out of the Sea of Marmara." She raised her eyes from the letter. "They'll retrieve your agent. Both of them."

Matty waited a beat, then turned and stalked back to the videoconference codec. "They better," she snapped, and then she cut the connection.

Then she relaxed a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"Well?"

A thin agent in a beige pants suit stood from the beige couch. Exactly how long she'd been there, Matty truly didn't know. And that was saying something.

Christ, she needed sleep.

"Well," the blonde replied thoughtfully, "I think it's not a good day to be named Samantha."

Matty cracked a smile. It might have been genuine. "The State Department will be hands off to avoid further alienating the Turkish youth. We've already got enough enmity in the region."

The one Samantha she was actually willing to tolerate at the moment returned her smile. "Make them believe Chevalier was acting on his own, or at least not with the State Department's approval." She turned that over in her quiet way. "Was he?"

"Don't ask." Matty turned back to her desk, trying not to remember saying the exact same thing to an agent standing right where Cage was standing, not two days ago.

But since she was following the script so well –

"Put together a team. At least six agents, as many spec ops as you can. Oh, and take Bozer. Americans will be a little too obvious right now." She didn't think Wilt would bat an eye, it was putting him that much closer to the search for MacGyver. "I'm setting you up in eastern Greece."

They'd be close enough to the NATO and UN installations there, and right on the border with Bulgaria and Turkey. That was within a two hour flight of everything they had on Batuhan Aydin. And, it technically wasn't violating the Secretary's instructions. Mac and Jack's op had had nothing to do with Greece.

"What about Riley?"

Matty shook her head, not bothering to take her eyes off the world map. "Ms. Davis needs to take some time."

Time that she wasn't taking. Matty had no doubt the hacker was down with the other analysts as they spoke, poring over data. Probably trying to access the Turkish investigation. And she was good, but she couldn't hack pen and paper. Right now, Matty's plan was to let the girl exhaust herself and then make an agent take her home and sit on her.

Cage was silent a moment. "You know you're putting Bozer in an uncomfortable position."

Matty glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Bozer's a big boy now. He better get used to it."

The blonde smiled, a little sadly. "Riley won't be happy with you."

That was the understatement of the year.

"And what about you?" The same soft, probing voice. "You knew Jack at least as long as Riley did. When will you take some time?"

Matty very, very carefully didn't over-analyze that question. She'd hired the ex-SASR agent, she'd brought her in for this specific skillset and it was frankly childish to believe that skillset wouldn't be used on her. And she hated that her first instinct was to assume her response would be used to manipulate her, as opposed to helping her.

Jack Dalton was dead. His partner was either dead or still in Aydin's hands. There was only one way Samantha Cage could help her.

Matilda picked up the forgotten tablet, closing the offending website.

"When the job's done," she answered, matter-of-factly. "And let me be perfectly clear. I don't care what you have to do. I don't care whose neck you have to choke. You bring our boys home."

Agent Cage inclined her head. "I will."

-M-

He was moving through the cargo bay with a clipboard, looking so focused and absorbed she almost hated to interrupt him.

"Are you avoiding me?"

Bozer, to his credit, only flinched, rather than actually jumping off the ground. It was a military plane, more of a cargo jet than their usual Jetstream, so she supposed he wasn't as keyed up about noises.

He flashed her a quick, guilty grin. "Who, me?"

Cage didn't let him off the hook, but made sure her approach looked casual, and he showed her the clipboard – a classic redirect. "Well, that and making sure I got enough stuff. Seven actors can go through a lot of makeup."

She raised her eyebrows. "They're agents, Bozer, not actors."

He shrugged a shoulder, still grinning. "When they're in my makeup, they're actors. Can't be yourself if you look like someone else."

Not for the first time, Samantha Cage really stopped and looked at him. She liked Bozer. He was very forthright, and normally very honest. While some – even her, at first – passed that off as being simple, she was beginning to fully appreciate the complexities of Mac's roommate.

There was a reason someone like Angus MacGyver would choose this person, particularly when he had been young and vulnerable. It wasn't that Wilt Bozer was a comfort from his childhood days.

No. Bozer was far more than that.

"That's a very astute observation," she complimented him, and his eyebrows bunched together, even as the smile didn't fade.

"Wait, I'm sorry. Did you just . . . naw, I musta heard wrong. Was that a _compliment_ , Cage?"

She chuckled, letting her fingers trace along one of the tethered, hard-walled black crates that he'd already inventoried. "Does it happen so rarely?"

His easy grin faltered just a little before he recovered, turning back to his clipboard as an excuse to avert his eyes.

Oh yes. Bozer was definitely hiding something.

He still continued the game, very gallantly. "For my cooking, no. You're pretty good about that." He scanned the list, pen hovering in the air. His hands were steady, and his eyes were actually reading the lines of the spreadsheet. She made a mental note; his skills were improving.

". . . but about spy stuff?" He checked a box, his broad grin returning. "Not so much. You gave me one about the dress. And the contacts were kind of a backhanded compliment, but I'll take it."

Right. The casino op.

"The stitching really was very good," she repeated her comment from that day in the lab.

"Yeah, _and_ the contact was a good fit." Bozer clicked his pen closed, sliding it onto the clipboard's aluminum clip. Then he met her eyes, and there was triumph in his expression. "Come on, Cage. You had to know I was gonna notice."

She played the innocent card, just slightly raising her eyebrows to express interest, and he scoffed, gesturing at the cargo area at large. "We really gonna play that?"

She leaned against a crate, crossing her arms loosely. "I know you're not taking an inventory, if that's what you mean. You would have done that before we left, not an hour after."

He pointed the clipboard at her. "Exactly. And I did. Seven subjects, seven cases."

Bozer was still watching her, plainly thinking he had caught her at something, and she took a quick visual count.

Nine wheeled black makeup cases, including the one she was leaning against.

"Ah? Ah? So you gonna tell me what you're smuggling? Are they rocket launchers? No, wait - grenade bandoliers." His gaze flickered to the bottom right corner of his eye, accessing his creative centers. "It would have to be something Matty thought was overkill . . ."

Cage didn't change her expression or her position. These cases would have come in under the lab authorization. There were only two agents she'd picked that had lab clearance, and she didn't know either of them well enough to know what equipment they'd consider questionable enough to have to be brought along covertly.

The intel on the Turkey job had been grossly incomplete. She'd heard enough of Weber's conversation to know that Matty had taken it personally, so the gap in intelligence hadn't come from her.

Was she sending along a few care packages in case the recovery went sideways?

"They're not mine," she said aloud, interrupting Bozer's increasingly fantastic imagination.

He stopped, then gave her a very skeptical look. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

She leaned off the crate, glancing at the stenciled ID numbers. "Believe what you like. Which two aren't yours?"

Bozer crossed his arms, then had to adjust for the clipboard he'd just shoved into his armpit. "Like you don't know."

Cage ignored him for a moment. The cases had different configurations, as they were multi-use, but seven of the cases had two separate latches, one at the top and one on a side, indicating at least two separate compartments.

Two of them did not, indicating one larger compartment. They were still makeup cases, but they'd be for very large items, such as full masks. She didn't think Bozer had felt the need to go that far for their disguises.

She tucked her cardigan behind her holster, just in case, and Bozer's arms slipped back down to his sides.

". . . wait . . . really?"

He was standing right in front of the closest single compartment case, and he jumped to the side as he followed her gaze. "Really?"

"Really, Bozer." She jerked her head and he got the picture, stepping further back. The case wasn't moving, nor did it sound like it was ticking, but she was still careful as she inspected the latch. It wasn't locked, and it was well greased. It flipped open very easily, and she gave Bozer a warning look before she cracked it open.

Nothing happened.

She opened it further, seeing only black inside, and then the cargo bay lights fell on a grey cotton hoodie, and long eyelashes resting on pale cheeks.

Cage flipped the case open all the way, but Riley Davis didn't stir.

Bozer had peered over the edge, and his body language assured her that he was truly as surprised as she was. "Holy . . . Riley!"

The young woman was folded up semi-comfortably in the case, with her laptop bag beside her and a small metal cannister with a breathing mask attached. Her eyes were still closed, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her face.

Bozer made the same assumption she did. He almost climbed into the case, grabbing Riley's shoulders and shaking her frantically. "Riley!"

The woman came around with a sleepy jerk, eyes wide, before she started swatting at Bozer. "Jesus, dude, what the hell?! Take it easy!"

"Riley! Shit, are you okay?" Cage could see immediately that she was. Lips were a good color- her fingernails were electric blue, but that was lacquer – and now that Bozer had half pulled her out of the case she was moving fine, just a little stiff.

"- you insane?! You could have suffocated in there! What the hell were you thinking-"

"Oh my god, dude, pull it together," she shot back, sitting on the edge of the case before swinging her legs over. "It's fine. Not like these things are airtight."

Bozer looked like he wanted to shove her back into the case. "Are you kidding me? What if we had strapped it down? Huh? How did you think you were ever getting out of there if we hadn't found you?"

Riley got her footing on the cargo bay floor and smirked at him, pulling a bobby pin out of her more-down-than-up-do. "How do you think."

Now that his surprise and relief had had time to be expressed, Bozer went right into anger. "Oh, I know you are not telling me my boy told you that was a good idea-"

"It would have fit easily into the seam," Cage murmured, reminding them both that she was there. "She greased the latch, Bozer. She could have opened the crate whenever she wanted."

Riley's smirk was triumphant, but her eyes were apprehensive as she glanced towards Cage, and she didn't maintain contact long. "You hang around Mac, you learn a thing or two."

Bozer wrapped an arm around his chest, collapsing against the nearest case. "Baby girl, you about scared ten years off me! Is that what you're learning from Mac? 'Cause if it is, you need to stop taking lessons!" He rubbed his short-cropped hair vigorously in an attempt to expend some of the adrenaline that was no doubt in his system. "What were you doing in there anyway? Havin' a nice little nap?"

Riley ducked back into the case to grab her bag. "Yeah, actually, I was. I just worked a 30 hour shift, remember?"

She shouldered the bag, keeping her head up and her back straight, trying to project confidence. Cage watched her gather herself, then turn to face her just like she might a foe.

"And unless my watch is wrong, it's too late to turn this thing around."

Cage stifled a laugh, keeping her features smooth. "We've already wasted too much time," she said instead. "We're not going back."

Riley interpreted that as agreement and started to walk past her. "Great. I'll just find a place to set up my stuff."

Samantha waited until she was next to her before catching her left arm, just above the elbow, effortlessly bringing the hacker to a sudden stop. "That's not what I said."

Riley tried to shake her off, and Cage tightened her grip warningly. "This is my op, Ms. Davis, and my team." When she had the younger woman's undivided attention, she loosened her hold. She found herself a little surprised to find that while Riley was tense, she wasn't shaking.

"You were not selected for this op for a reason."

The younger woman glared at her, meeting her gaze head on. "I get it. You think I'm a liability, that I'm 'emotionally compromised'." Her tone was dry and sarcastic. "But the fact is, there's things I can't do from Phoenix that I can do on the ground, and if these people are really that dangerous, Mac needs all the help he can get."

Cage didn't immediately reply, and Riley took the silence as a win. "If it's safe enough for Bozer, it's safe enough for me."

Wilt, who had been quietly supportive this whole time, gave Riley a sideways look.

Samantha felt herself smile. She couldn't help it. "It's not safe for Bozer either."

His side-eye slid to her.

"Any agent that stays at our safehouse is no less a target than any agent who goes out to follow leads. I hand selected the agent that will keep Bozer here alive, and I don't have a spare for you."

She let them both chew on that a moment. It hadn't been her intention to let Bozer in on that detail, since he was a bit high-strung, but she needed him in her court if she was going to win this.

"Since you seem so well informed, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we are trying to infiltrate and dismantle a special forces team that regularly spanks Navy SEALs during Allied war games. If and when we find them, they will not be wearing uniforms. They will not rely on gadgets and coms. And they will not hesitate to kill anyone they feel is a threat to their mission."

She looked between them, once again struck by how young they were. Riley was simply the correct skill set in a body that was five years too young. Bozer was a total accident who should never be let out of the lab. Neither one was stupid by any stretch. They simply lacked the life experience necessary to comprehend the consequences they were facing.

"Riley, I know you want to help save Mac. And you want revenge, for what happened to Jack." She didn't miss the micro-expression that crossed the younger woman's face at that comment. "But this mission is too dangerous. When we land, you're getting on the next plane back to Los Angeles. That's an order," she added when the other woman started to protest.

Riley finally dropped her eyes, sucking on her bottom lip before her head started to shake. It was slight at first, but then she decided she meant it.

"No way," she said, and she threw up her hands palm outward, trying to put space between them. "And even if you do put me on that plane, I will turn right around and come back. You can't stop me."

Though she was avoiding eye contact, her voice was solidly resolute, and Cage took a mental step back. It wasn't rage that was driving her. This wasn't about wanting to pull a trigger, wanting to hurt someone.

"If Mac is alive, we'll find him. I promise you that."

Riley just nodded, licking her lips, and then she looked up, wearing a grim smile.

"Yeah. That's the problem."

Bozer's eyebrows shot for his hairline, and Cage was content to let him ask the question.

"Wait . . . what? You . . . _don't_ want to find Mac?"

She turned to him, using the motion unconsciously to try to put more space between herself and both of them.

"Of course I want to find Mac! Just . . . just not _only_."

Of course. The extreme measures to get herself on board, the denial and protective impulse in her micro-expression . . .

Samantha closed her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry. About Jack."

The grim smile was pinched. "Yeah, well, don't be, because he's not dead. Not yet."

Bozer came to lean on the case beside Riley, his hand straying towards hers. "Riles . . . you were there. You saw what we saw."

She yanked herself away from him like she'd been stung. "Yeah, so were you. We saw exactly what we were supposed to see."

Cage simply held up a hand, before defensiveness shut down any path forward. "What did you see, Riley?"

The younger woman glared at her, but her eyes then shifted sightlessly to her left. Accessing memory centers, not creative ones. "I saw . . . I saw what looked like an execution. I saw some kind of liquid used, then we had intermission, and then we couldn't see a damn thing." Her eyes refocused.

"Come on, Cage. Don't you think it's weird that the State Department can't even confirm they found bodies?"

Samantha hesitated. Denial could be a very strong emotion, and at this point even physical evidence might not be enough to convince Riley. She would get absolutely nowhere trying to 'prove' anything. And frankly, she couldn't, because the hacker was right.

It had been almost six hours since the Turkish authorities had been notified, and satellite images had shown their teams setting up lights and tents at the camp site. There was no way the wreckage of that helicopter had not been located and searched. And there was no reason she could think of for the Turkish government to withhold that from the State Department. Particularly since it seemed the State Department was at least tacitly in support of the current regime.

Which would lead her to believe the State Department was withholding the information from Matilda. From them.

And the only reason to withhold the information would be if the information they had didn't agree with the narrative they wanted to tell.

They wanted Phoenix to back off until they had wrapped the whole situation in a bow. So if the information wouldn't lead the Phoenix team to back off, it would likely be actual confirmation that at least one of their agents was still alive.

But whether that was Dalton or MacGyver, she had no way to know. Her money was on Mac surviving the crash, which would be setting Riley up for a crushing blow if she allowed this line of investigation to continue.

"Yeah, I thought so." Riley shifted the bag on her shoulder. "There's something off about this, and you know it."

"Okay," Samantha said slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say it was staged, and the Chevaliers and Jack are alive and well." She carefully tempered her tone at the hope in Riley's eyes. "The covered truck would have had to be used to take them out of camp. We lost it somewhere in the park. If you can find evidence of that truck, or evidence that they're on that truck, or any other evidence of their current whereabouts, by the time we land . . . I'll listen."

Convincing the young woman that Jack was really dead wasn't possible. The only person who could change Riley's belief was Riley herself.

And any information she gleaned in her search for that evidence, whether it existed or not, was one step closer to finding MacGyver.

Something like a real smile started growing on the young woman's face. "Yeah?"

Cage nodded. "Yeah."

-M-

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Kenan. Aydin gave him a quick nod and indicated the phone. His lieutenant returned the nod, silently taking a seat near the door.

The meeting droned on, as all committee meetings had a tendency to do, but he kept absolute focus on the words, the sounds in the background, a cup of tea being set down, papers shifting.

The voice he was expecting said nothing, and when at last all comments were called for, the meeting was adjourned.

Batuhan Aydin waited until the conference line indicated other calls were disconnecting, then disconnected his also.

"So, no news?"

Aydin didn't smile often, but when he did, it was always in genuine pleasure. "Only a skeptic like you could listen to our government talk for so long and believe nothing was said."

For his part, Kenan just shrugged, standing promptly as Aydin abandoned the desk, stiffly grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. The office lighting was soft, easy on the eyes, but in the hallway the lighting was bright and fluorescent. He let his eyes adjust as they walked, and when they headed down the main staircase, the shadows made it look as if the corner of Kenan's bottom lip was swollen.

Aydin gestured. "From the crash?"

"Eh?" Kenan brought up a hand, gingerly prodding his face as they took the next left. "Oh, no. This is new. It'll be gone by morning."

"This was the analyst?" Aydin couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "The American did this?"

Kenan gave him a droll look. "He's quicker than he looks."

"Ayi," he murmured, shaking his head. "Youth and spirit. I admire it."

His lieutenant just grunted.

"I'll be heading back to the city tonight. Did you give them my instructions?"

There was a hesitation, then a single nod.

Aydin gave his lieutenant a look. ". . . but you disagree."

They took the following left, descending a stone staircase into the old wing. His lieutenant waited until they passed the servant's kitchen to respond.

"I am not convinced he has the information we need."

"Oh, so he's been cooperative?"

In response, Kenan smiled. In Aydin's experience, his lieutenant only smiled when he, also, experienced real pleasure.

"Not yet." Kenan stepped forward to rap sharply on the door, and after a beat, the heavy old lock clanked, and the door was drawn open. They continued through.

"Is your concern with the target or the timetable?"

"Both." Kenan stopped them, then, about twenty feet from the end of the hall. "I think the information's dated, and I don't think we should commit any troops until we're sure we'll get the results we need."

The colonel considered that a moment. "I trust you to use your best judgement."

Kenan drew himself up stiffly and saluted. Then he turned on his heels and strode back the way they'd come.

Aydin continued to the other end of the sandstone hallway, and knocked twice. The old wooden door opened without a sound, and he stepped into another well-lit room.

The analyst was tucked in the far corner, his breaths coming in soft shudders from the shivers wracking his scrawny frame, and Aydin looked him up and down. The American met his gaze unflinchingly, eyes bright blue and stubborn behind long blond bangs.

Aydin studied the young man. Then he turned his head and addressed the sergeant behind him.

"Where is his shirt?"

Hakan didn't drop from parade rest. Unlike the lieutenant, he had not earned that right. "We took it away, sir."

Aydin almost laughed. "Yes, I see that. Was there a reason, besides making him uncomfortable?"

The sergeant hesitated. "He used it to attack Lieutenant Yavuz, sir."

To a civilian, it might have sounded ridiculous. Kenan Yavuz was the analyst's better in strength, height, weight, and training. And he knew for a fact that Kenan knew at least seven ways to kill a man with a shirt.

That this analyst knew one of those methods, and had thought he could successfully execute such an attack – that was interesting.

"It is very cold here in the ground, yes?" he said, switching to English. "Surprising for a warm climate."

The American didn't respond, he just sat huddled in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest in an obvious attempt to conserve heat. His arms were tucked between his chest and his legs, hands in his armpits, and the abrasions from the restraints were an angry red.

The colonel merely nodded to himself, shrugging into his jacket and giving no hint of stiffness. He didn't miss the way the American's eyes tracked his every move. "I always need a coat. Even a man as big as me!"

At least the young man still had his boots. The floor could be unforgivingly cold on the feet.

"My men tell me you do not wish to talk. Is this true?"

Nothing but the sound of shivering breath.

Aydin threw his arms wide. "Come now, my American friend! You were so pleasant yesterday! What has happened?" He indicated the man's left side, and without a shirt the bruising was prominent on his pale skin. "Are you in pain?"

The American took a slightly deeper breath, and Aydin was hopeful it was to speak. Instead the young man sneezed.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "There is much dust here, yes. I am sorry for this. And also for your . . . accommodations, I think you say. You see, in order to make one comfortable, one needs money. Is it not the same in America?"

He gestured to the room, which was part of the old cellar. It was a place the servants used to store root vegetables, and why there was a pipe that brought in water, and a drain in the floor for it to leave. Many summers he had spent in a room very like this one, enjoying the coolness as he washed vegetables for their kapuska.

"I had money. My family has been in the military for four generations. It is unusual for military men to make lots of money. That is not why one should serve." He walked over to the pipe, noting that his men had removed the valve head. It could still be turned, but it would be difficult.

"So the money was my mother's, you see. She is dead now, ten years. She was a good woman. She would like you, American. She would say, feed him! Feed the sican American!"

She would probably have washed his mouth with soap for using that word at the dinner table, but that was neither here nor there.

"But she is gone, and the money is gone. Where did it go, you say? Erdogan took it." He fixed the American with a stern look, but the analyst hadn't budged, just watching him. "All assets frozen. Colder than this room, yes! And so we have had to make do with less."

He put his hands in his pockets, rolling his head on his shoulders in a comfortable stretch. "Do you know how much a helicopter costs, my American friend?"

The analyst smirked.

Aydin smiled broadly. Kenan was right. This one had spirit. "Ah, I see that you do! Quite a lot of money, yes. And yet today we have one less helicopter. For that reason, I am afraid you do not have a bed. Also not a blanket. I do not know if even we can buy food for you." He nodded slowly. "But I remember, I think, that you said you have money. Did you say that, American?"

The smirk had settled into something challenging and defiant. This was not the analyst's first interrogation, and Aydin studied him with new eyes.

"Perhaps now would be a good time to remember where that money was, yes? It could buy you many things. Comforts."

He gave the analyst ample time to consider the offer. Now that he had placed the ask, his men would focus their interrogation efforts on that end. The young man would spend so much energy trying to protect that secret – that he had no money, because he was not a journalist - that he would let others slip.

However, if this American had received enough training, such a simple deception might not be enough.

It was going to be interesting, to see how far Kenan could get with him in a week. The colonel heaved a large sigh.

"Well, if you cannot remember, do not fear. We are not so poor that we do not have water. You may have all that you want."

He waited, just a moment, watching those blue eyes. They never faltered, though it was clear he understood exactly what was about to happen.

Interesting indeed.

Aydin turned and walked back to the door, nodding to Hakan.

-M-

You guys seem to really dig this. Yay! I hope I live up to your expectations!

I realized when I was about to finish this chapter that I had yet again done pretty much nothing to resolve the original cliffie, so this chapter is a little later, and extra long, so that I could include that last part with Mac. Only because you guilted me into it!

I'll go back at some point and fix the missing fifth crate mistake from Chapter 2. (Jack was in crate number four, and should have rolled right into another box on fire. Whoops.) But they say NaNo is about writing, not editing, so I'll hold that til the end. Anyone spot any other issues?

Also – I kinda had some of this written earlier (it's NaNo, I started on the 1st), but I've almost caught up with what I already had written, so updates might come out a bit slower. Just setting expectations.


	4. Chapter 4

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

**ROUGHLY ONE WEEK LATER**

He thumbed the hair dryer off, still keeping the skin taut, and then he picked up the brush, rapping it gently against his left wrist. Tiny droplets of brown paint spattered in a very natural pattern onto the skin, and Bozer held it a moment more, giving them a second to dry.

". . . almost there . . ." he murmured, and then he released the patch of skin.

The latex he had painted on snapped back to size, creating the appearance of wrinkles, and Bozer eyed it critically, glancing past the agent's face to the reference photo he'd taken three days ago.

Close enough for government work.

"Alex Sanna, you are ready to clock in," he announced, and the agent tentatively opened his eyes. He gave a few experimental blinks, and Bozer held up a mirror.

Agent Saito stared at his face for a moment before it split into a grin. "Dude, I know I said it earlier, but that's just wild."

Bozer chuckled, dropping the brushes into a plastic cup of brush cleaner and screwing the lids back onto the makeup pots. "I'm telling ya, Asian to European isn't that hard. Just tweak the angle of the slant of your eye, hide it a little bit with some wrinkles, a wig and some contacts, and viola. A thirty year old Japanese dude is a fifty year old Greek dude."

He whisked the nylon makup cape off the agent, making sure not to get any powder on the man's uniform, and Saito hopped off the chair, straightening his collar. His hands had been painted, latex was way too delicate for that kind of work, but the waterproof airbrush paint wasn't going to come off anytime soon. Maybe if the agent soaked his hands in gasoline.

And frankly, if he was tossing Molotov cocktails, his cover was probably already blown.

"Have fun out there," he called, and Saito gave a wave without turning, joining a statuesque brunette straightening her lavender headscarf in the hall mirror. Bozer finished putting the makeup pots back into Saito's case, locking it up and tucking it under the desk with the others, and then he headed over to join them.

He told himself it was to check her eyebrows, but Cage was already pretty adept with makeup, and besides, hers was just beauty makeup. All they needed to do to her today was make her not blonde, as opposed to changing her ethnicity.

She glanced at him, the contacts making her eyes a brilliant blue, and Bozer whistled. "You should consider wearing those more often. They're almost the same color as Mac's."

By the time he realized what he'd said, it was too late to suck the words back into his throat, but Cage just gave him a rare, unguarded smile.

"Thanks, Bozer," she said, blinking deliberately slowly, and after confirming that the contacts hadn't shifted, Bozer just nodded, stepping back self consciously.

"Good luck," he said, a little lamely, and the two actual agents exchanged a nod before heading into the foyer. Their villa was just on the outskirts of Alexandroupoli, and their front door opened out onto a view of the ocean that quite frankly looked too amazing to be real life.

Saito left first, hopping into the delivery van that had been parked off the main road, and Cage waited for a moment in the wide foyer, staring out towards the ocean. She seemed so calm in her perfectly tailored summer dress, a classic, elegant Greek print, and Bozer tried to be subtle as he eyed her ivory clutch.

It was way too small to have a gun in it, unless it was a TARDIS. Then again, she'd had a gun on her the night she wore the red dress –

"The gun's not in my purse," she said, without having taken her gaze from the ocean, and Wilt just stared at her.

"Can you teach me how to do that?"

Her lips, painted a delicate pink, turned up slightly. "What, correctly guess that a twenty-four year old male would be looking at a woman's body if she's standing provocatively in a light breeze, gazing out over the ocean?"

Bozer thought that over a second. "Okay, so it was just a guess then," he confirmed, and she actually laughed.

"I'll be fine, Bozer," she said, in her soft voice. "McMurtrie is watching the perimeter from across the street. Please don't leave the villa until I get back."

He just nodded, and she patted his arm, giving him a reassuring squeeze before stepping out into the morning sunshine. It promised to be a hot day, and he stayed at the door until she'd slipped into the little white Porsche Carrera that was parked cockeyed in their drive. He shook his head, closing the door, and he glanced up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the foyer, wondering if Riley was up yet.

Really, if she'd actually gone to sleep.

It was just him and Riley today. All the other agents were out on leads of their own, culminating with Cage's evening rendezvous with General Doukas. Bozer had immediately dubbed the man 'Count Dooku' and after all their research, the title seemed to fit. If there was anyone in the Greek army who knew Batuhan Aydin, it was that guy.

But Cage said they could handle it, so all that was left to do now was clean up, and make sure his girl was properly caffeinated.

Bozer took the stairs two at a time, but softly, almost tiptoeing on the thick white carpet towards the large guest room that Riley had claimed as her own. It was definitely a rental property – there was no way anyone in their right mind would put down white pile carpeting and expect it to stay clean, _ever_ , and he peered around the doorframe to see a large, open room filled with rich olivewood furniture.

It was also filled with tech. There was an entire tree of flatpanels on one wall – they were never going to get the security deposit back – and several short racks of servers. Cables were everywhere, though they were neatly velcroed together into thick tentacles that ran up the walls, along the floor molding, and eventually snaked to a heavy black UPS.

There was also a bed, containing rumpled white sheets and an insane number of pillows, but nothing else.

"Hey," a voice chirped, literally in his ear, and Bozer yelped and shot at least a foot in the air.

Riley swept past him into her room, and she waved a bright purple insulated glass at him. "This spice tea stuff rocks."

"Uh-huh," he grumbled, trying to force his heart back into his chest. "It should, it's got enough sugar in it. I see your ninja skills are improving."

She plopped herself into one of the plush armchairs, setting her drink down and picking up a keyboard, and he was surprised to see that her hair was wet.

He'd never even heard her get up.

She toggled through a few windows before glancing at him, giving him the look that said she thought he was being weird.

"Something I can do for you, dude?"

He shrugged, leaning on the doorframe. "Nah, just wondering if you were awake."

She rolled her eyes. "How was I supposed to sleep? It sounded like you were doing makeup for the entire Walking Dead cast down there." Her ripped grey tee had fallen off her left shoulder, and the black yoga capris made her look even slimmer than usual.

"Did you actually eat anything this morning?"

She glanced up at the monitors, momentarily distracted. "Oh yeah. Your French toast mod? You're going to have to try that recipe on Mac. It's stupid good with the tea."

He watched her another few moments, debating, and then he shoved off the doorframe, coming to sit on the generous upholstered armrest beside her. If she minded the invasion, she didn't say anything, and he stared at her monitors with her, maps and reports and images.

"We talk about him like he's here, y'know?" he said finally.

Her typing slowed for a moment, but her eyes never left the wall. "Who, Mac?"

"Yeah. I did it just this morning."

Riley finally looked at him, really looked at him. She'd had a shower, sure, but she'd also put on eye makeup, and if she thought she could hide those black circles from him, she just had no respect for his art.

Bozer hesitated, then went for it. "But we never mention Jack."

The walls slammed down, the quick smile, the quick blink. She fled right back to the internet, where she had control. Her voice was completely normal when she replied. "Oh, trust me. Jack'll dig the French toast too."

He touched her shoulder, not surprised to find it like steel. "Hey. It's me. You don't need to put on a show."

She didn't respond, other than to frown, and he decided to wait her out. She may have no respect for his makeup skills, but he sure as hell respected the way she could make information move around a monitor.

He stopped, and really looked. A lot of that information was not in English.

"So, how much Turkish have you learned?"

It took her a while to decide if she was still speaking to him. But in the end, he won. "Just enough to understand why they code Java backwards." Her tone made it clear exactly what she thought about that. "It's actually pretty smart. I had to mod the Russian spyware to recognize a few of the exploits because it was in an unexpected order."

He fixated on the only two words he'd really understood. "Russian spyware?"

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "They rigged our election, so now I'm hacking pretty much every hospital, veterinary clinic, and cosmetic surgery center in a tri-country area in their honor."

He knew the answer before he asked. "Any luck?"

She paused, and then her shoulders slumped, just a little. "No. No one matching his injuries. It's taking too long."

It had been like shitty Christmas, two days ago, when Matty had finally gotten the State Department's copy of the Turkish military investigation. Between the camp and the helicopter crash site, only three bodies had been found. All three had been burned.

It had been the Chevaliers.

No one was happy about their deaths, but it was hard not to feel relief, even giddy happiness, that somehow, Jack Dalton had walked away from that camp.

And hadn't been seen or heard from since.

A few keystrokes brought up what looked like a very long list of names, and there were at least three alphabets in use. "Healthcare here is more fucked up than at home. I've got a list of practicing physicians, and I'm cross-checking it against the web looking for anything related to medical, but a lot of the time they don't have websites, or brick and mortar clinics, they're just . . . like, door to door doctors."

"Well, that could be a good thing," Bozer pointed out reasonably. "Maybe there wouldn't be an electronic health record attached."

She sighed impatiently. "Yeah, well, even so, they'd need supplies. A lot of them. I created a shopping list based on –" She stopped, biting her lip, and Bozer just put his hand on her shoulder.

"I know what it's based on," was all he said, and she gave a short nod and continued.

"Anyway, nothing's coming up. There are too many mom and pop shops here in Greece, particularly on the Bulgarian border, who still have paper inventories. If he went up to a farmhouse, somewhere, they called the local town doc . . . " She trailed off.

Then why hadn't he called them. If he had been treated by a doctor, and was safe, by now he would have made contact.

Boze eventually straightened, walking back over to the wall. He tapped a screen. "Can you show me the map again?"

What looked like stock prices disappeared, and a Google Earth image of Turkey flickered to life. It zeroed in on Cilingoz Tabiat Park, and four location balloons appeared.

Bozer scrubbed his scruffy cheeks, staring at the map. "Right. So the camp is A." He tapped it. "The helicopter took off from B. And C is the helicopter crash site." They were all within a mile of one another.

"So I'm here, then I head here," and he tapped site B, "because I'm an idiot and I think I can take down a helicopter full of special forces soldiers. If I'm the reason that helicopter crashed, and I know Mac's on it, I'd totally go check on him. But instead, I went to the ranger's station." He tapped D.

"And that's where the flare was reported, and that's where they found blood," Riley said, her voice drained. They'd been over this many, many times.

"But no body," Bozer muttered. "So I'm all shot up, I don't go check on Mac, I hoof it two and a half miles, and then I send up a flare . . . I'm gonna have to believe that Aydin's men are just as likely to see it as anyone else."

Behind him, he heard the clink of ice on plastic, but she didn't take a drink. That was one of the scenarios they didn't like. That Aydin's men found Jack, finished him off, and dumped the body in any one of thousands of square acres of national park. Their odds of ever finding him, in that scenario, were basically zero.

"But Aydin's men are too busy recovering their buddies from the helicopter," Bozer continued. "So someone else found me."

"I know." It was half between a whine and a growl. "But it's not like every exit to the park is monitored. I've hacked as many of the nature cams as I could, tracked those vehicles as far as I could, and I end up with . . ." An Excel file popped up on another screen, and Riley highlighted a column. "Seventy-two vehicles I can't positively say Jack was or was not in."

Bozer just nodded. "And the truck-"

"Never came out," Riley confirmed. "Nothing of the correct form factor, since the moment they left the camp. My search would have found it even if they'd put a hard box on it. That truck either went off-roading in a major way, took one of the unmonitored exists and then stuck to back roads, or just never came out."

Bozer stared at the miles of green. "And we have no way to monitor off-roading or secret roads. So, let's say the truck really never did come out. That means that everyone on the truck had to leave via another vehicle."

There was a slurping noise behind him. "Boze, I just said nothing even close to the right form factor. No convoy trucks, no buses, no semis. If it came out on another vehicle, it was lots of 'nother vehicle'."

Right.

. . . well . . .

He glanced over his shoulder, and she was staring at him. "Holy crap," she said suddenly. "They came out in multiple other vehicles."

"Just like their buddies from the copter crash," he agreed. "We knew that already."

"No. Shit. All this time, I've only been looking for extra passengers." The monitors suddenly became very busy, with lots of images. "I should have been looking for the damn crates."

He blinked at her. Crates . . . ?

The crates from the covered truck. That they had satellite video of, being loaded before the execution.

"I don't suppose those crates had –"

"Military stamps on them?" Her fingers were flying. "Hell yes they did."

-M-

They were back.

He tried to turn away but they were everywhere. All around him. Creepy little brown hands, holding him down. Creepy black, glittering eyes. Sometimes there were drums, sometimes singing. Always the smell of tobacco and feet.

Not Ewoks.

They slit open his stomach, he screamed but they didn't care, digging their greedy claws into his flesh. He could feel their teeth, gnawing through his intestines, eating him alive. Acid burned in his throat. He felt his bowels release, water and blood, but he was in too much agony to care.

He cried. He begged. He almost caught one, once, but it slipped away at the last second, leaving him a strange wooden amulet. He held it tight, but it didn't stop them from coming back.

They were back.

Jack tried. God help him, he tried. His arms just didn't work. He turned away, into the needles, needles on his face, on his back. Creepy crawlies he didn't want to think about. Sand fleas, but not sand.

Hands on his face. Hands on his chest. Holding him down, always the chatter.

Angry. They were always so angry.

He opened his mouth, pleading, and they poured their vile water down his throat. He hated it. So much water. Things in it. Slimy things. Swamp water, parasites wriggling into his guts to be torn out later, or now –

Fingers, holding his nose. Covering his mouth. Swallow or drown. Stroking his throat, making it work even though he didn't want it to.

He knew what would happen when they were done.

It was a long time before he realized they were gone. There were no drums. There were no hands on him. It was quiet.

The needles were there, his bed of nails. But no hiss of insects, no songs. No angry voices. Just a droning, comforting rumble, carrying him along.

Jack opened his eyes, and he realized they were actually open.

All he could see were blobs, dark and light spots shifting and dancing and making him sick, so he closed them again. The sensation of motion remained, and he moaned. His stomach felt like he'd eaten a bowl of razor blades and was too scared to move, in fear they'd cut him. All he wanted was to be still.

Jack swallowed; his throat was curiously numb. He couldn't taste, but had the impression of bitterness. The ground beneath him bucked, and he groaned again as the razor blades shifted. He opened his eyes, to see, and the spots were still there. But they were much more still, just blinking in and out gently like white Christmas lights.

The floor shook violently, a giant was stomping, and then a face swam into view.

Sharp, glittering black eyes stared down at him, and Jack tried to jerk away. The razor blades sliced him, deep, and he heard someone cry out. He wrapped his arms around his gut, he tried, but they never made it to his sides, and he opened streaming eyes to see his right arm there, attached to his right shoulder. He pulled at it, but it wouldn't budge. It was stuck on something.

It was tied. A string of flesh connected his wrist to –

No. That was a rope.

That was a rope tied to a wooden slat.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in as deep a breath as he could manage. It didn't clear his head. He felt himself retch, and he fought to keep the acid down.

Someone said something, and Jack jerked his head away, to the left. A rope there, too.

He was tied.

The ground began to shake, continuously, and a second face appeared above him. This one was larger, no less brown, but it had more than eyes. It had a nose, and teeth.

Someone was talking to him.

Jack Dalton shook his head, trying to clear it, and the world swam in a way that was somehow familiar. Jack latched onto that feeling for dear life, and adrenaline squeezed his lungs. He was tied up, he was in pain –

He was being drugged.

His jaw was grabbed, forcefully, he shook his head but he couldn't get rid of that hand. Someone pressed something against his lips, and clamped down on his nose. He knew what it was, now, but he was powerless to do anything about it, and when he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he tried to suck air between his clenched teeth.

The water tasted as bad as it had in his dreams.

The next time he opened his eyes, he stayed very still. Very quiet. There were still spots, but eventually he recognized them as shadows on a muslin sheet. Leaves, and sunlight. The feeling of motion was real.

He was moving.

Jack turned his head to the side, very slowly, and gradually the world shifted with him. He was surrounded by straw, it prickled his face as he followed his bare right arm, outstretched, to where a soft cotton rope was tied. He followed the rope with his eyes to a wooden slat, counting them all the way up to the ceiling.

It was a truck.

Someone snorted, loudly, at his feet, and Jack flinched, then clenched his jaw until it cracked.

That pain, that was real too, but this time he didn't make a sound.

It passed relatively quickly, and he carefully rolled his head back to center, letting the world settle before he dared to pick it up. Past a mound of colorful rags that he kinda hoped his body was somewhere under, a brown-eyed cow was lying where his feet should have been. It had a piece of straw stuck to its lip, and it blinked calm, drowsy eyes at him.

He was tied up, on a produce truck. With a cow.

The muscles in his neck were trembling too violently to hold his head up any longer, and he relaxed back into the straw, waiting for the swimming feeling to pass.

Beneath him, the truck rumbled, the driver engaging the engine brake, and they left smooth pavement, bouncing gently onto what sounded like a gravel road.

-M-

"He's not an analyst."

Lieutenant Kenan just stared at the log, not quite sure he could believe it.

Four days. He'd only been gone four days.

". . . Help me understand," he said, after a long pause, and Cenk chuckled.

"The highlights? Two days in he intentionally made himself hypothermic by putting himself spread eagle under the tap for over twenty minutes." Kenan opened his mouth but Cenk held up his hand. "Yes, you heard me correctly. He did that to get hold of a blanket. Used the fibers to make a couple smoke bombs and the hem thread to disable Osman and Arda."

"A smoke bomb?"

The second lieutenant dipped his head, letting his chair fall back onto all four of its wobbly legs. "Don't ask me how he lit them, we still have no idea."

The logs were handwritten, and military men in practice had simply terrible handwriting, but he was pretty sure that said "braided." So he'd taken the time to weave the threads into usable rope.

Not bad for someone who was supposed to have been almost unconcious from cold.

Cenk pulled his feet off the desk with a sigh, reaching over to check the tea, and Kenan's eyes fell onto the next item. "You took his boots?"

Cenk nodded, removing the brewing basket and tapping it on the kettle. "No point in letting him keep them after he pulled the shoelaces and the rubber soles to electrocute Eren. He got past Major Oguzhan and actually made it to the first floor that time. The major had to shoot him to stop him." The second lieutenant shook his head to himself, placing the brewing basket in its saucer and pouring the tea. "His socks he filled with sandstone he chipped off the wall. That was one of his less successful attempts. Not sure if he was desperate or just bored."

Kenan flipped the page over, surprised to find additional log entries. "Where is he now?"

"We moved him to the third floor prayer room. It's the right size, has only archer's windows, there's no electricity or water, and it's hotter than hell in the afternoon." The second lieutenant pushed a cup of cinnamon tea within reach and went back to reclining in his chair with his.

That wasn't a bad location. The third floor had been nearly emptied; everything of value had been sold, and there were many rooms. Eventually it would become barracks for the new recruits, but for now it was a veritable playground. He'd been planning on using the space for tactical drills, and keeping one prisoner there wouldn't make or break any of those plans.

Kenan blew on his tea, studying the last entry. "You put a twenty four hour watch on him?"

Cenk just stared at him over the top edge of the page. "Frankly, sir, it's just easier." He gestured at the extensive prisoner's log. "Plus it's good practice for the new recruits. I don't think we've taken restraints off him once in the last two days."

Kenan felt his brow furrow, and he set the log down, taking a sip of his tea. "He simply cannot be that dangerous." The American was barely grown, and he'd gone down before he'd even realized they were there. He was nothing compared to the other agent.

"And that is the thing with him. He does not want to kill us." Cenk gestured with his tea, nearly spilling it. "He had multiple opportunities to get his hands on a sidearm, but the most he did was disable Osman and Arda's - and that was by field stripping them. All he wants is to leave this place. I don't know what the hell he does for the Americans, but he's definitely not an analyst. Maybe an engineer?"

"Have you determined his allegiance?"

Cenk shook his head. "I'm leaning NSA. He could write a manual on waterboarding. Knows every trick."

Well, that could explain why they hadn't gotten anywhere with him. And why he would willingly subject himself to water even after two days of interrogation. "How many calories do we have him on?"

"300, and I think we should leave it there. He does not have much fat to spare." Cenk spread his hands. "Lieutenant, we have followed your instructions to the letter. I'm telling you all this so you understand the type of adversary you are dealing with."

The lieutenant studied the man in front of him a moment, and then he took a sip of tea. "You like him."

Cenk laughed. "Allah protect me, I do. He is saskinlik. I have never met a more resourceful man. If I thought there was any chance of success, I would tell you to recruit him."

Kenan flipped the log over again, checking the initials. "Speaking of, what do you think of the new recruits?"

The second lieutenant leaned forward and tapped a name. "This guy's not bad. _Hava Kuvvetieri_ , we could use him for exfil. Haven't gone up with him yet but he's certified on rotary and fixed wing."

Another capable pilot was something they sorely needed. "What of these others?"

Cenk gave him a rather blank look and shrugged. "Warm bodies?"

Kenan couldn't help a snort. "And yet I am called the skeptical one."

"That, my friend, is because that is what you are. Sir," he added, draining his cup. "Now. Would you like to see what has kept us so busy while you were out enjoying the Mediterranean women?"

The lieutenant gave his subordinate a mild warning look, which the other man didn't take nearly seriously enough, and he also finished his tea, setting the delicate ceramic back on the table before grabbing his holster. He held it up. "I presume I need this, to defend myself?"

Cenk simpered. "Most of the fight has left him by the afternoon. You should be safe."

"Good to know," Kenan murmured drily, and the two men proceeded from the modest drawing room into the main hallway. He was loathe to admit he rather liked the great house, for all its ostentatious finery. European royalty had once used it as a vacation home, and it was unapologetic about the fact that a German villa had vomited all over a traditional Turkish hisar.

Still, the old wing reminded him of every great old home he had ever seen as a child, and he was pleased when they mounted the great staircase and headed towards the prayer tower. The architecture would be very similar to many government buildings in Istanbul, and there were at least six approach techniques he needed to drill into these men until it was second nature.

They heard activity long before they came upon the final curve in the hallway, and Kenan couldn't help a small grin as he spied the open door.

"Yes," he murmured, "I see how dangerous this American truly is."

Cenk didn't even break stride. "I told you. It's hot in there."

They both approached the room on light feet, Cenk yielding the right of way, and Kenan peered quietly through the doorframe. Hakan was in the near corner, leaning against the wall, and he started to come to attention when Kenan waved him down.

No need to make the American shy of his audience.

The analyst – or whatever he was – had his back to the far wall, pinned there by a recruit Kenan did not know by name. The man was large, with dark skin that told of many hours in the sun, and closely cropped dark hair. He had the American by his throat, and it was difficult to tell if he was still conscious.

"Name," he said calmly, in fairly passable English.

The American had braced his hands – in restraints, as Cenk had said – against his attackers' in a vain attempt to loosen his grasp, and blood trickled sluggishly down his forearms. As the seconds ticked by, he scrabbled ineffectually at the iron arm strangling him.

The Turk shook him like a sack of rice and let him drop, and for a moment the only sound was a rasping, rattling cough as the American fought to breathe. Kenan could hear the water in it.

"Name?" the recruit tried.

The American's coughs petered out, and he simply remained there, on his hands and knees at the man's feet. He swallowed, painfully loudly in the silence.

Then, wordlessly, he shook his head.

Kenan folded his arms and leaned on the doorframe, just watching.

The recruit heaved a large and obvious sigh, but the American didn't move. The Turk crouched down to his level, cocking his head to the side in an effort to get the American's eyes, but the young man didn't look up.

"Look at me."

The American made no move to do so.

The recruit clicked his tongue, then grabbed the American by his restraints and pulled.

The response was immediate. The American gave a shout of pain, moving willingly to get ahead of the tug, and then he raised his head, his face twisted, and planted his forehead squarely in the recruit's nose.

It wasn't as quick or as coordinated an attack as it had been that first day, but the same clever fighter was certainly still somewhere in there. Both men staggered back, the American into the wall and the recruit backwards several steps. Sergeant Hakan took a step forward, but Kenan gave him a single shake of the head.

The recruit recovered quickly, bringing his hand from his face and staring at the blood on his fingers a moment, before he balled up the same fist and came at the prisoner with a right cross that snapped his head against the plaster hard enough to dent it.

The American rag-dolled, dropping bonelessly to the floor, and the recruit gave him a savage kick for good measure.

"Damn it!" he roared in Turkish, bringing his wrist up to his nose, and then he planted his foot, hard, between the American's wrists. The move would have ground the plastic deep into his skin, but this time there was no response, not so much as a tightening of slack muscles.

The recruit huffed out a sigh, and Sergeant Hakan snapped his fingers.

At first when the man turned, it didn't seem like he noticed them. He just glowered at the sergeant a moment, then dropped his hand to his trousers, fishing for his wallet. Kenan straightened, just to help him out a little, and the recruit snapped into attention so fast it almost made Kenan's back ache in sympathy.

"Recruit," he greeted, after an appropriately long pause.

"Sir!" the man barked.

Okay. He was dealing with an Army man. "Did you get any actionable intelligence?"

The man hesitated, then gave a quiet snort. "No sir!"

The lieutenant entered the cell, finally, knowing Cenk was right behind. "When do you think the prisoner will regain consciousness?"

The recruit seemed perplexed by the question; his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. ". . . within two hours, sir!"

That was fairly specific. "How did you come to this conclusion, recruit?"

The man stared straight ahead. "That was the duration of his last unconscious period, sir!"

Kenan merely nodded, then quietly sighed. "This doesn't seem to be working," he said aloud. "Recruit, you may go."

The man hesitated again. "Yes sir!" He snapped to, marching out of the cell without a backward glance, and Cenk stepped smartly to the side, his face a mask.

Kenan waited until his footsteps had receded before he approached the American. The rise and fall of his chest was regular, though there was an audible wheeze. The bruising from the crash had dribbled down the American's side and turned green, which indicated it was healing, but slowly. There were other, fresher bruises and abrasions, but none of them seemed more than superficial.

Of far more interest to him was the state of the American's wrists. They were badly lacerated, oozing blood and serum. There was a particularly deep cut along his left wrist, near his ulnar artery, and it was too wide to have been inflicted with a blade.

"Where'd the major hit him?"

"Right hip. Not serious," Cenk supplied quickly.

Kenan grabbed the young man by his waistband, pulling him off the wall, and rolled him onto his back. The American offered no resistance, he was dead weight, and the bloodstain was apparent on the khaki fabric. Kenan fingered the hole, but felt only more fabric, stiff with dried blood.

He turned his head, addressing both the men behind him. "You dressed the wound?"

"He did it himself," Cenk supplied, and Kenan looked down the length of the khakis – the only stitch of clothing the American had left – to see that both hems had been ripped, and several inches of fabric had been torn from the bottoms.

Kenan sighed.

"Let's put him on a round of antibiotics." Pneumonia was a known complication of waterboarding, after all, and it sounded like their American friend was well on the way. The skin around his eyes was red and feverish, and his parted lips were pale.

Whoever their mystery American was, they weren't going to get the correct results this way. Not in time, at any rate.

"Second lieutenant."

"Yessir."

"You like him so much? Why don't you be his friend."

The second lieutenant gave a somewhat shoddy salute. "My very own American. How did you know, sir."

Kenan couldn't help the grin. "It's Victory Day tomorrow. Don't say I never gave you anything."

The sergeant seemed suddenly taken with a coughing fit, and Kenan was careful to make his expression neutral when he turned.

"Has he said anything at all?"

Hakan recovered quickly, pulling out his small black notebook. "Not in so many words. Some curses, a few threats. He mutters in his sleep. Only thing I've been able to make out is 'jack' and 'tea.'" The man tucked the notebook back into his vest. "His alias is top shelf. I've got a friend looking into it."

The lieutenant turned and looked the American over again. He was maybe 10 stone dripping wet. He'd also clearly lost some weight, it was obvious in his face, even swollen as it was.

"Let's try something else."

-M-

Thank you, all of you, for the comments. It's really encouraging, it puts a smile on my face every time. As a professional lurker, I know sometimes I love something but I'm not always disciplined about leaving a comment, and I appreciate that so many of you are so much better than me.

In that spirit: **Gib** , I'm gonna call you out. Your specific comments are thoughtful and very helpful. I was worried about Cage, she's a tough one, and it was nice to hear your take on my interpretation. You tell me specific details that you like, and I hope you feel that you can also tell me what you don't like. I really, really appreciate the time and effort you're giving me. Thanks!

For going above and beyond, do you have any requests? Anything you'd like to see happen? If I can work it in, I will. Just let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **Note:** For those who don't know, Roma or Romani are commonly referred to in the West as 'gypsies.'

-M-

Something touched the side of his head, and Mac jumped before he realized that he'd briefly fallen asleep.

There was no comfortable position. No way for him to sit or lay that didn't put pressure on his wrists. His compromise was to put his back flat against one wall, leaning sideways onto another, with his legs drawn up and his arms wedged against them. It kept his wrists up, which slowed the bleeding, and while the plastic still bore the weight of keeping his wrists together, that was about it.

It was the best he could do.

Mac raised his head a little, but the guard hadn't noticed his lapse, or else he didn't give a shit. He was propped up in the opposite corner with his tac light on, thumbing through what looked a whole lot like a trashy romance novel.

No one had said anything to him, not even his superior officers, so either it was just a quirk the guy had, or it wasn't a book at all.

To the best of his knowledge, they hadn't filmed him. Whether the book was hiding a smartphone, a camera, whatever, this wasn't about a ransom.

MacGyver let his head fall to the left, bonking it gently into the wall, and he let the cool plaster soothe his temple. The dark helped. His headache was pretty constant, now, like the buzz in his ears. A concussion, getting steadily worse. Impairing his judgement. His thinking.

He needed sleep.

But sleep was hard to come by. Every time he managed it, it seemed like it was only minutes before he'd get a bucket of water to the face, or someone would tweak the zipties. That was part of it.

Asleep is not the same as unconscious. How many times had he told Jack that, when the idiot would claim blacking out was the same as taking a nap. The physiology of the two states of conscious could not have been more different. Sleep was a regenerative process, where the brain would remove toxins, regenerate cells.

Unconsciousness was an involuntary process in which the brain was responding to injury and shock, more concerned with keeping the body alive than maintenance. It would be like stopping to take out the trash while the kitchen was on fire.

But unconscious was all he'd managed to get, for a long time.

Mac let his eyes close, relaxing as best he could, but he kept his buzzing ears focused on the guard.

It didn't matter. The guy moved like a ghost.

It seemed like no time passed, and then a body slid down the wall beside him, pinning him into the corner. Mac tensed, but all the guard did was take a deep breath, hold it for just a moment, and then let it gust out in a sigh so familiar it almost made Mac open his eyes.

A shoulder bumped his, not hard. He could feel the warmth of the body next to him.

"Hey man."

Mac didn't react.

Hey Jack.

There was a companionable silence. "Nice cell you got here. Prayer room?"

You wouldn't know a prayer room if it bit you, dude. No offense.

Jack chuckled, the sound echoing slightly in the dark room. "True that." The other man stretched his legs out in front of him with a grunt, getting comfortable. "How you holdin' up?"

Go away, Jack.

His partner snorted. "That's not very nice. We're not gonna re-enact that dumb conversation from Paris, are we? As I recall, that was the start of a real crappy couple of days."

Murdoc.

He honestly wasn't sure which one he'd prefer.

"Easy there. Little early to be thinkin' that way."

Go away, Jack.

He heard the man run his hand over his whiskers. Mac had scruff of his own, he was using it to judge how much time had passed.

"Dude, you shave what, every two days? You couldn't grow a beard if your life depended on it."

Mac let that one slide. It was kinda true.

"Look, man, I know you don't wanna hear it, but you're gonna need to switch some things up if you wanna get out of this alive."

Mac dug his head a little harder into the wall, surprised to find it felt just as solid as the presence beside him. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

You're not real, Jack.

A snort. "You mean because I'm dead? You don't think I know that?"

Mac shook his head a little, ruthlessly crushing the slight lump in his throat.

Go away.

"Listen, Mac. I know you're compartmentalizing like you always do. Focus on the mission now, deal with the fallout never. And that works for you, I get it. But I'm telling you, man, that technique is gonna fail you, and it's gonna happen soon."

No ransom meant nothing for Phoenix to track. He didn't remember much after the crash. A feeling of being smothered, of having weights taken off him and being pulled out of the trunk of an SUV. He knew the building he was in was fairly large, though they put a black hood over his head whenever they moved him. There was never the sound of church bells, or prayers, not even roosters. Wherever he was, it was pretty remote.

Mac wasn't even sure what country he was in. It was going to take Phoenix some time to find him. He just had to hold out til then.

"Dammit, Mac, that's exactly what I'm talkin' about. You can't think that way." His partner bumped his shoulder again, making him flinch a little.

"Listen to me, brother. This ain't our usual grabbed-by-the-drug-dealers kinda gig. It's not like they just wanna know what agency you work for before they kill you. These guys are the Turkish equivalent of my Delta unit." His partner paused, probably giving him that serious look he reserved for when they were in enough trouble that Jack couldn't even smile about it.

"Do you get that, Mac? These guys are as professional as it gets. They're following a checklist and systematically breakin' you down. And they're gonna succeed. It's a done deal, dude."

Great pep talk, Jack. Leave me alone.

His partner was silent a moment, and then he laughed. "Waterboarding, right? I know you had Army training and you think you know what you're doin,' but it's not about the drowning, it's not even about the fear. It's about wearing you down physically. You're burning a lot of calories just trying to stay breathin'."

Mac would have rolled his eyes if they weren't already closed. You're not telling me anything I don't already know.

"Well I know that. I'm dead, remember? I'm up in that head of yours. Which means now I got me a ginormous brain too. You jealous?"

Mac felt himself smile. It was tremulous, like his facial muscles couldn't quite remember how.

"They're feeding you what? Table scraps?"

Every once in a while they'd toss him an already eaten bone from some kind of fowl. There'd be just enough meat left to give him a taste, but more importantly he could break the bone for the marrow, and replace at least a little of the iron he'd lost. The rest of the time, it was some kind of vegetable based paste, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to make him incredibly thirsty.

The only water he got was when he was swallowing it to prevent himself from inhaling it.

"So you're running at a deficit of what, a couple thousand calories a day, even if the rest of the time you ain't moving."

I know, Jack.

Why do you think you're here.

His partner chuckled. "Oh yeah. You're hallucinatin,' all right. That big ol' brain needs fuel, and plenty of it, and right now it's getting nada. You're running on fumes, kid, and that ain't gonna change anytime soon."

That was probably true.

"What I'm getting at here is, that's all being done by the book. They ain't mad at you. This isn't some kind of punishment, it's not about politics, or the coup, or what the US did or didn't do. These guys don't give a shit. They need you for something, Mac, something specific, and you better figure out what that is, fast."

The smile had long ago drained from his face. He didn't need Jack to tell him that. Aydin said it was about money, which was a misdirect. They'd kept that up about as long as he'd kept insisting he was Luka Morrow, a freelance journalist for Reuters.

But that game had gotten old a while back. Now they just wanted to know his name. They wanted one little inroad. Once he cracked, once he gave them that, it was all downhill.

It was better to say nothing at all. Easier. He wouldn't be able to keep the lies straight, not with his head like it was.

He could hear Jack shaking his head. "That's where you're wrong, kid."

A tired surge of anger tried to kindle in his belly. Jack would _never_ tell me to give up. Never.

"You're damn right I wouldn't." There was real anger in his voice, too. "And that's not what I'm doing now. Mac, you can't win this way. They're doing exactly what my old unit woulda done, and there's no one, not even me, that could get through it. They've already got you, brother. It's over and done with."

Mac just shook his head, rolling it along the wall. Back and forth.

He could deny it all he wanted, but Jack was probably right. Eventually he wouldn't have enough strength to keep going. He was running on anger and hope, and eventually he would be too tired to feel either one of those emotions anymore.

Army training had drilled into them that despair was the enemy. It was a mindset, a psychological obstacle, and it mattered just as much as a physical one. If the enemy could make you despair, they could make you give up.

DXS training had reinforced that. Mental health was just as important as physical health. Keeping the mind strong was a choice.

He gave a tired snort. None of his instructors had told him what to do when the one man he trusted most in the world, the man he'd let down so completely, appeared to him like the Ghost of Cairo Past, made him feel for just a _second_ like he wasn't completely alone, and then told him he was screwed.

"Mac, it wasn't your fault and you know that."

The lump came back, unbidden, and Mac clenched his jaw until he forced it away again.

Those thoughts were a one way ticket to despair. There were certain things he just couldn't think about. Not yet.

Jack, you are not helping me right now.

His partner scoffed. "That's only 'cause you keep interrupting."

So what. What does the great Jack Dalton think that I am supposed to do.

He heard his partner blow out his cheeks. "What would you say here? Oh, right - I got an idea, but you're not gonna like it."

Something that might have been a chuckle bubbled out of Mac's throat.

"Bud, I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to start picking your battles. They want your name. Give it to 'em."

Mac's eyes flew open. He couldn't help himself, and he turned and stared incredulously at the man sitting next to him.

Jack was right there, lounging against the wall, exactly how he'd pictured him. He was wearing that smile that wasn't a smile, Mac could see the half of his face that was picking up the dim light coming from the high windows. He had one leg stretched comfortably in front of him, the other drawn up, and he was resting his right forearm on that knee, idly playing with a fingernail.

His left hand, he placed on Mac's own knee, and he could feel each finger, and the warmth of Jack's calloused palm.

Adrenaline shot through him, and Mac blinked hard.

Jack's smile settled into something a little more genuine, and he gave the knee a couple pats.

"I'm serious, brother. Tell 'em your name. I mean, it's not like any of us ever use it."

Mac just stared at him, and without thinking he reached for the hand on his knee. Just to see. The second he moved, the zipties bit into the inflamed flesh on his wrists, and Mac hissed in surprise, curling his wrists to his chest protectively.

His heart was pounding, adrenaline still cold in his veins, but when he looked again, Jack was gone.

-M-

She gathered her skirts in one hand, floating up the wooden ramp with the grace of a dancer, and when she had made it into the bed of the truck, she moaned loudly.

"Ayi, Basha, Inger is no better. Bring me my medicines!"

He frowned up at the truck, goose-stepping from the road to where Papa was setting up their main tent. His father jerked his chin to the correct crate, and Bashavel made a show of slamming the thick jars none too gently into a burlap sack. He threw in a couple extra, things that were not needed, and he turned specifically so that he could not see Papa glaring at him.

"Basha! Show some care!"

"I never wanted the stupid goat!" he shot back, throwing the sack over his shoulder. "I take care of Tessa! I never agreed to take care of a goat!"

His father surged forward, raising his hand, and Bashavel dodged the cuff, stomping back to the truck with the jars clinking loudly in the bag.

"None of the other boys have to do this work! Why could you have not given me a sister!"

From inside the truck, his mother moaned again.

"Why could Del not have given me a beautiful girl, who would not abuse her poor mother so!"

Basha growled every Turkish curse he knew as he stormed up the ramp, swiping the muslin cover away and stepping into the straw before making sure it fell closed behind him.

"You will break them!" his mother exclaimed, calmly taking the sack, and Bashavel began laying out the blanket. She made short work of sorting through the jars he had brought, and Bashavel glanced around for the bucket of water.

It was at the man's head. He stuck a finger in - still nice and hot.

The American was awake; his eyes were dark and watery, sluggishly tracking him as he moved across from Mother. His breathing was quicker than before. Beneath the rags, it seemed that he was starting to move his legs.

"Hold her still! Still I said!" His mother's voice was loud, loud enough to carry far outside their truck, and the anger in it was quite real. She did not care for the American one bit.

Bashavel gave her a mild look. "She is a terrible goat! If she is this strong then she is not sick!"

He reached out, holding the American's head firmly, and the soldier growled, tried to shake him off. It was uncoordinated, but stronger now even than he had been in the morning, and Bashavel glanced behind him when the wooden sideboard creaked.

"Ayi, ayi, silly goat, this is good medicine!" his mother continued loudly, covering the sound of the American's moan and pushing the jar to his lips. Bashavel held him as still as he could, glancing again as the soldier's left arm curled, eliciting another sharp crack from the wood. The rope was straining, but it was a solid weave and he knew it would hold.

The knot, that he was not so sure about.

Soon enough the man was exhausted, and as he gasped in a breath she expertly tipped up the jar. She tucked it into the straw, covering his mouth and nose with her other hand, and as before, he fought her, trying to spit it out.

"Ayi!" she cried again, this time possibly in sincere irritation, but her hand was gentle as she stroked his throat, forcing the pale man to swallow.

And then again. And again.

Mercifully, the opium and valerian calmed him quickly; it was only another few minutes before his movements became sluggish, and the pained moan faded from his breath. Bashavel released him then, pulling back the rags to reveal his upper body while his mother coaxed the American to drink the rest.

The poultice over his terrible wound was once more soaked through, and she made tutting noises as she took a generous handful of slippery elm powder and sloshed it into a jar of new milk and yeast. She shook the jar angrily, as if she'd rather be throttling the American than healing him, and Basha couldn't help a quick grin even as he peeled the soaked poultice away, placing it in the refuse bucket.

The skin beneath was pale and waxy, and his mother's neat stitching looked as if it was holding together two sheets of candied icing. Still, there was less swelling, and he fished a rectangle of cheesecloth from a bag, handing it to her. She unscrewed the jar, stuffing the cloth inside and thoroughly soaking it before pulling it back out.

Bashavel moved back to the American's head, and covered his mouth and nose. The man barely moved.

"Ow, you stupid old goat!" he bellowed, when his mother placed the new poultice, forcing it tight against the skin. The American jerked, but his cry was muffled, and as his mother scooped the rest of the gelled poultice from the jar and spread it, he continued to berate the goat, just in case.

It wasn't long before it set, firm and dry to the touch, and mother used the rag that was covering the American's lower body to wipe her hands. Then she whisked it away, looking critically at the poultice on his thigh.

That one still seemed dry.

"There you see? That is how to care for her! She is much happier now!"

He gave his mother a look, and she returned it tenfold.

"Now clean up in here, and wash your hands!"

"I'm not five, mother," he snapped, and she stopped at the bucket of hot water to wash her own hands thoroughly while he rolled the American onto his right side and removed the straw the soldier had soiled. He then shifted a new pad of straw into place. She quickly gathered up her jars, berating him for not being nicer to Ingrid as she did so, and he declared that he hoped the goat died in its sleep that very night as his mother floated nimbly down the ramp.

A little hot water and some soap went into a smaller bucket, and once the American was scrubbed clean, he rolled the man back to his original position, and covered his lower body with a new towel.

He used the last of the hot water and the soap to clean his own hands, and then he set about collecting the rest of their supplies.

The American looked almost peaceful, now. His square jaw was more relaxed, and his breathing slower than before. Bashavel watched him sleep for a moment, then moved the muslin back and hopped down out of the truck. He'd remove the soiled straw to the woods when it was dark.

It would be hours; they'd made good time, and Bashavel maintained his irritated attitude, shoving his hands into his pockets and idly kicking a rock across the street.

"Basha!"

He rolled his eyes and glanced heavenward, but Del did not intervene, and he headed resentfully to their tent, not surprised to see his mother already making the American's meal.

Papa had gotten almost everything unpacked, so Basha simply took a seat on his rug. His father beamed at him.

"You are a brilliant actor already, Basha! You will have no trouble finding work." Papa passed him a cup of tea, which he sniffed suspiciously.

His papa blinked at him, his eyebrows shoving his aviator's cap high on his forehead. "You do not trust me, little Basha?"

He made a show of inspecting the tea, even holding the cup up to the light as if checking the color, before screwing his eyes shut and daring to take a sip.

His father cuffed him lightly on the head, and he yelped, almost spilling it. "I can make tea, boy."

Bashavel swallowed the tea, then looked playfully at his mother. "At least you don't poison it."

His mother gave him a dirty look, crushing European horse chestnut and turmeric with cassia leaves in her stone mortar. "Hold your tongue, or I will give you the same medicine I give the goat." She jerked her head towards the truck, hiding her eyes from them.

Papa looked between the two of them, then came to sit beside his wife, who pretended she didn't see him. "Ayi, Mother, I know this is hard work. But it will be worth it, you'll see!"

"I will see us shot by soldiers!" she muttered, her tone anguished. "He is too strong! I will need other medicine to keep him asleep!" She shook her head. "The moment you knew he was not Romanipen you should have left him there."

Papa rubbed soothing circles on her back, making her amulets and beads chime like bells. "He would have died, mother. You and Basha have done well. No one suspects. There are none here in the camp who would tell."

He pulled a folded newspaper from the back pocket of his trousers, one that Basha had seen before. It had pictures of the politicians the Turks had killed.

One of them was the American in their truck.

Mother glanced at the paper, then rolled her eyes and continued mashing the paste as if she could pulverize all their worries the same way.

But Papa thumped the newspaper proudly. "We are nearly to Stolipinovo. I know a family that will act as intermediaries. The Turkish soldiers will not come so far into Bulgaria for him. And if they want him so badly, we can invite their embassy to the auction. The Americans will pay a good price for him. You'll see, Mother. You'll see."

Mother caught Basha's eye, and pointed the pestle at him. "Basha, do not take after your father. He is a terrible Roma."

"Ayi," Papa cried, his tone wounded, and Basha could not help a laugh as his papa suddenly swept his mother into his arms, swirling her around the tent in a quick two-step.

"I am the most handsome Roma you have ever seen," he declared, and his mother glared at him before she gave up, laying her head upon his shoulder. Papa winked, and Basha just shook his head.

It was an accident; he went to retrieve his cup and knocked it to the ground instead, but his papa was there in an instant, cupping his face. Basha pulled away with a frown, but his father's grip was firm, staring intently at him.

"Are you dizzy?"

He shook his head, as much to get away from his father's grasp as anything else. That was probably exactly how the American felt when they grabbed _him_.

"No, Papa, I feel fine."

"You're pale," his papa corrected, running his hand through his hair, and Bashavel tolerated the gesture.

Mother had returned to their folding table, but now she was slicing some kind of root he didn't recognize, and Basha groaned and made a face.

"See what you have done," he complained, gesturing, and his papa just patted him on the head.

"I will go now and buy medicine, for both our goats."

"I am _not_ a goat!"

-M-

The lieutenant entered without knocking, closing the door silently behind him. Only a few heads turned to look at him; most had their eye on the colonel. He was laser focused on the speakerphone, and the voice was not familiar to Kenan.

"-thirty or so men. We've located a suitable training facility and have already started the retrofits. It should be ready in two weeks."

"And funding?"

There was a brief pause. "Our friends in Greece are very generous."

The colonel grunted an assent. "Very well. Liris?"

Lieutenant Kenan took a seat at the large dining room table, and Cenk gave him a look that said _I'll catch you up later._

"Here, sir."

"Any interesting chatter?"

Liris was their connection into the Turkish intelligence community. Kenan had never actually met her, but he was pretty sure he could identify her voice in his sleep.

". . . perhaps," she said finally. "You've received the report."

Aydin glanced at his laptop. "I've received a lot of reports. Be more specific."

"The military investigation from last week."

Aydin's eyes bored into Kenan's, and he met the colonel's gaze steadily.

She was referring to the military's investigation of their declaration of war. And subsequent helicopter misadventure. He'd _also_ read that report.

"What do you know about the American who survived?"

She was referring to the American agent they'd shot, as surely as they'd shot that bastard Chevalier and his family. The one who somehow managed to walk away despite it.

That American was proving to be even more of a pain in the ass than the one they had upstairs.

The colonel continued to stare at him, so Kenan leaned towards the microphone nearest him. "Not much. Possibly NSA. Why do you ask?"

"It may be nothing, but on the surface it seems the Russians are quite interested in him."

Kenan digested that. "I'll bite."

"About three hours after the report was released to our allies, there was a massive spike in healthcare organizations being targeted by Russian malware. The attack started in Turkey and moved out to Greece and Bulgaria. It's been going on for days. Hospitals, ambulatory surgery centers, pharmacies. They're getting in, but they aren't doing any damage. Apparently they're just looking around."

"And we don't know what they were looking for?" The colonel's voice was thoughtful.

"No. I'm not even sure it's related. All I have is aggregated data. Want me to take a closer look?"

The colonel glanced at him again, and Kenan gave him a nod. "It wouldn't be beyond the capabilities of the NSA to frame their friends in the Kremlin." If they were combing the hospitals for the injured American, it might be worthwhile to track down any additional agents the Americans had in play in the region.

If they were looking for one agent, after all, chances were they were looking for both.

"I agree. See if you can determine what they're after."

"Yessir." Liris' voice cut off abruptly, indicating she had put herself on mute.

"Anyone else?"

The phone fell silent.

"Thank you for your hard work," the colonel said, ending the call.

Kenan stood with the others, but waited near the end of the table, and Cenk gave him a sympathetic look as he filed out of the room with the others. Colonel Aydin remained where he was, at the head of the table, and Kenan approached him when the dining room door finally closed.

"Colonel."

"You were late," Batuhan observed mildly, studying a handwritten piece of paper.

"Yessir."

Aydin set the piece of paper down, rubbing his eyes for a moment before he tiredly indicated the chair across from him.

Kenan sat.

"So, the American is NSA?"

"Unconfirmed."

The colonel blinked a few times, then frowned. "Ayi, I think I'm about to start needing glasses."

There was nothing for Kenan to say to that, so he didn't.

"Lieutenant, you've had the analyst for seven days. I expected results by now."

So had he. "I had to take care of a small supply issue in Kesan. I would have adjusted the protocols earlier if not for that distraction."

"Oh?"

Kenan didn't want to give the colonel a false impression. "We've begun a drug therapy. It's too soon to say for certain, but the initial results are encouraging." If Hakan was to be believed, anyway.

The colonel mulled that over. "And our timetable?"

Kenan considered his words carefully. "As I advised you last week, I'm still not certain he has the intelligence we need. He'll be ready in a few days. I'll know more after that."

"Lieutenant, that's not acceptable. We have new recruits coming on board in a matter of weeks."

Kenan inclined his head. "I sent Osman and Arda on a little fishing expedition. One way or another, we'll acquire the package."

-M-

I know that I just threw a lot of characters at you. A whole special forces unit and a bunch of gypsies. Pretty sure that's everyone, though. If that's turning anyone off, will you let me know? I wasn't sure how to set everything up without them.

When I started this little project, I'd set a goal of having this finished by Thanksgiving. Now I'm not sure that's doable. I have this outline, but I keep going off-book. I'll try to pick up the pacing a little.


	6. Chapter 6

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Mac woke up screaming. Water came out of his mouth instead of air. There was a terrifying, crushing pressure on his chest, and his wrists were breaking.

He couldn't even get a breath before the next bout, and he almost inhaled the same water he'd just brought up.

Someone grabbed his hair, yanking him back from the edge of the table, and he could do nothing but cough as they replaced the straps on his chest, his arms, his legs. The light above was too bright, and he tried to turn away.

A sodden rag was stuffed into his coughing mouth, and his jaw cracked alarmingly. He was still choking when the towel went back over his face.

The table slammed back about fifteen degrees, and over the buzz in his ears he heard the slosh of the pail being refilled.

His heart was pounding numbly in his chest, his left arm was cramping, and Mac realized, in an abstract kind of way, that his diaphragm was literally no longer capable of clearing his lungs.

A hand came down on his left shoulder. Firm, but not hard.

Grounding.

It gave him a reassuring squeeze, and then it was gone.

MacGyver shook his head.

For a moment, it seemed like no one had noticed, and so he gathered his strength and tried to fling the towel off. A hand smashed down on his face, stilling him instantly but then the towel was removed, and a dark blob appeared between him and the too-bright lights.

He shook his head again, more to clear it than to communicate, and the rag was yanked out of his mouth. He kept coughing, weakly, until someone helped him out by driving an elbow into his solar plexus.

That did the trick.

"-ou know how to stop this," someone was saying, and after the words finally trickled into his brain, Mac felt himself nodding.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Mac swallowed, as best he could, and tried again. " . . . name."

"Yes. Your name." The voice was accented, and hard. "This can all be over, if you tell me your name."

Mac opened his eyes again, trying to focus. There were three of them, there always were, and he wasn't sure which one was talking.

"My . . . name," he repeated.

"We're waiting."

Mac zeroed in on the voice, it was the blob off to his left. Where he'd felt Jack's hand.

_Once I do this, there's no going back._

But hallucination Jack was right. He was done. If he didn't give them something, he was going to die.

Mac swallowed again, trying to make his throat work. ". . . Angus."

There was a brief silence. "Your name is Angus."

He nodded. "Name," he confirmed breathlessly. "Please . . . stop."

There was another brief silence, and then someone asked a question in Turkish. The third man responded, and Mac just lay on the table, panting and hoping beyond hope they actually believed him.

Even if they did believe him, there was no guarantee that they were going to tell him so. He probably shouldn't have waited so long.

Mac heard someone pick up the rag, and he opened his eyes again, trying to find a face. Make them believe.

"Please," he tried, when the silence had stretched on just a little too long.

"Well." It was the first voice. "Why didn't you say so?"

The three blobs pulled back from the light, and Mac heard boots splashing through standing water, heard the sharp slap of the sodden towel striking the waterpipe. He heard the door swing open, a few hushed voices, and then the heavy wooden door banged closed.

And then the only other sounds were dripping water, and the slow gurgle of the floor drain.

Mac lay there for a long time, just trying to breathe. He had no doubt at least one of them was still in there. They wouldn't have left him alone.

Though, what could he do? His body was immobilized by straps. His hands were still restrained. He barely had the strength to breathe, let alone manipulate heavy nylon webbing and military grade Velcro. He couldn't even raise his head.

". . . Mac . . ."

His gut clenched, almost making him vomit, and Mac rolled his head to the right, searching the darkness.

That couldn't have been –

"Man, you're really scaring me." The shadows literally coalesced into a human form, coming up to the side of the table, but Boze had been unexpectedly popping out of shadowed doorframes since they'd been kids.

Mac shook his head. "Bozer."

"Yeah, Mac, it's me." He looked up and down the table helplessly, then put a hesitant hand on Mac's chest. He didn't push hard, but Mac could feel it. "What can I do."

Get me out of here.

Mac could never tell Bozer that. He looked more scared than Mac felt.

"I'm sure you're . . . doin' it." He tried to smile, but Boze's mouth pulled down in an unhappy frown.

"Yeah, you know me and my girl. We're looking. Everybody's looking everywhere." Bozer leaned in a little, really studying him, and then he started to shake his head. "You don't look so hot, Mac."

He tried for a chuckle, but just ended up coughing. "Never . . . better."

His roomie wasn't buying it. "Just hang on. You hear me, Mac? Hang on. We're comin'."

Mac nodded, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. "I know, man."

I know.

The door opened without preamble, and Mac jumped, well aware of how delayed the reaction was. He wasn't sure if he'd fallen into blissful sleep for a moment, but a glance to his right showed that Bozer was gone.

Instead, a new face appeared at his left, staring down at him. The man was in his early thirties, as muscular as all the other Turks seemed to be, and he was carrying a khaki bag that was universal the world over.

The man looked him up and down for a moment. "So you're the American." He almost sounded disappointed.

Mac blinked at him, still a little dazed, and the man frowned and set his bag on the table by Mac's still-aching left arm.

He pulled something small out of the bag, grabbing one of Mac's hands, and there was nowhere to go as the soldier manipulated one of his fingers apart from the others. Smooth plastic clamped down around his fingertip, but it didn't hurt, and Mac realized it was a pulse and blood gas sensor.

A little bemused, he watched the solider pull out a classic stethoscope. He flinched a little at the frigid metal when it touched his skin, and the soldier gave him a dirty look. His examination was brisk but not cruel, and Mac left the finger sensor where it was.

He'd already cooperated once today, after all.

The next thing to come out of the bag was a small canvas roll, which the soldier spread across his chest. Mac didn't have the strength to pick up his head, but it didn't take long for a syringe and vial to come into view.

The soldier drew a dose of something that was a milky white, and Mac tried his damndest to shake the roll off his chest.

The soldier gave him a droll look. "It's amoxicillin and azithromycin. Any drug allergies?" His English was impeccable, barely accented.

Mac didn't respond, and as the soldier lowered the syringe he couldn't help trying to pull away.

The Turk sighed impatiently. "Or you can die of pneumonia. Your choice."

It was only the illusion of choice, which they both knew very well, and the soldier swabbed the site with an alcohol wipe and injected the drugs into his left bicep. They burned, exactly like antibiotics would, but so would any number of chemicals and drugs.

It didn't matter. There was nothing he could do about it.

The soldier capped and pocketed the used syringe, and rolled up the other medicines, shoving them back in his bag. He stopped near Mac's stomach, studying something, and Mac realized with a lurch the soldier was looking at his wrists.

The Turk reached for them, but he didn't do anything more painful than pick up Mac's hands, as much as the table restraints would allow, and gently manipulate them. He reclaimed his sensor, glancing at it, then did a double take before looking back down at Mac.

"What are you even doing conscious?" he asked, as if rhetorically, and that was right about the time the last of the adrenaline evaporated, and the shadows of the room flooded towards him.

-M-

Cenk watched the American's eyes roll back, and he gave it a five count before he reached over and squeezed one of the man's wrists. There was a slight tightening around his eyes, but he didn't come around.

He dropped the sensor back into their kit, zipping it up. "So. He say anything?"

In the corner, Sergeant Hakan was still scribbling, and it took him a second to realize that Cenk was talking to him.

"Yeah. Something about a 'bozer.' I get the feeling it was a person. A friend."

Cenk snorted. "Bozer? Angus? Who picks these names?"

The sergeant shrugged. "I'm guessing Jack is a name too. It's popped up a couple times now."

Cenk nodded, giving the med kit a quick shake to get the excess water off the bottom, and the pail on the floor caught his eye. "How much are you giving him?"

"Eh?" Hakan followed his gaze. "Oh, we only dose the second one. Everything else is just plain water. He usually gets through eight or nine sessions. Today he gave up after four."

His blood gases weren't as bad as he'd made them out to the American, but they weren't great. Cenk was frankly surprised the scrawny young man had managed as well as he had. "What's the dose?"

"You'd have to ask the lieutenant." Hakan finished making a note, then tucked the book away. "Since our good friend _Angus_ is napping, I think I'll do the same."

"I'll make sure they put him back to bed," the second lieutenant confirmed, and Hakan gave him a salute, pulling the door open for them both.

-M-

"Then I will see you there at eight o'clock?"

She pursed her lips, pretending to think it over, and then yelped with laughter as he suddenly wrapped his arms around her and scooped her into a dip. He too was laughing as he brought her back up, effortlessly, and his kiss was surprisingly gentle.

"I am terrible with timing," she admitted coquettishly, then raised her eyes demurely to his. "I am always late."

The general hmmed playfully. "And you think I do not already know this about you?" He tightened his embrace, just a touch, and she arched her back in reply, just a touch.

He sighed contentedly. "Well, then I will see you at 8:30."

She giggled, giving him a quick peck, and then he let her go, turning her out of his arms in a slow spin. One of his men had already gotten the door, and she slipped into the Porsche, carelessly tossing her clutch into the passenger seat. The car started with a roar, one of the things she truly liked about it, and Samantha Cage puckered her lips at the general, and left the parking lot at around eighty kilometers an hour.

She'd switched the camera off when she'd discarded the clutch, conserving the battery, but she still waited until she was at least a mile out before she pretended to dial a call on her phone.

"Have I received the invite yet?"

"Yep. Hit your account before the creep kissed you goodnight." Riley's voice dripped disgust. "How do you even do that? I feel gross and all I did was _listen._ "

Cage gave a quiet chuckle. "It's not for everyone, Riley."

"Yeah. No kidding." The coms were quiet a moment, and Cage watched the mirrors.

"No tails. Looks like I'm clean."

There was a brief pause. "Okay. Come back via Smirnis, that's the same route you took two nights ago."

Samantha glanced out over the Greek countryside, as if just enjoying the view, and continued looking for anything out of the ordinary. Just because General Doukas didn't have her followed out of the parking lot didn't mean someone wasn't going to join her a few miles down the road.

"How are we doing on financials?"

"Uh, hang on. I think Boze is off coms."

There was a brief silence, and then the slight pop of another com coming online. "Did I hear someone ask about financials?"

Cage shook her head, ever so slightly, at his tone. "You did. What have you found?"

There was a sound like two rasps rubbing together. "Well, I will tell you that Turkey's banking system is as messed up as their healthcare system. Also, I think I just figured out how to launder a _lot_ of money. I mean a _lot._ "

"Which would be helpful if you actually had any to launder," Cage murmured. "What about our general?"

"Well, he's not laundering it. He's just ping-ponging it around a bunch of financial institutions. He's also buying up a lot of property."

"Property where?"

"All over the place," Riley responded, before Bozer could. "A defunct publishing warehouse in Kesan, a fish market in Tekirdag, a spa here in Alexandroupoli, and at least three vacation homes in Svilengrad."

Cage tried to picture all of that in her mind. "Pretend I'm not a geography professor."

"He's buying up property on the coast, and at all the major arteries between Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey."

Okay. So lining up smuggling routes, possibly for the colonel. "What's he moving?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, sorry, Cage. I don't know that yet. We hacked the card he used on your date two days ago, but I think the same card is used by his staff because there's all kinds of crap on it. Caterers, flowers, office supplies, furniture, contractors –"

"What kind of contractors?"

"Uh . . . " There was the sound of a keyboard. "Renovation stuff, looks like. Flooring guy, plumbing, an electrician. A couple concrete guys."

Samantha frowned. He could simply be lining up repairs to those summer homes. "Do we know which properties they're being contracted for?"

" . . . not yet. I should know by the time you get back."

Her voice was just a touch too cocky for Cage's taste. "Riley, you are covering your tracks?"

"Yeah. I'm running through three VPNs and bouncing off two Russian botnets. Anyone looking for me is going to assume I'm a Russian script kiddie."

Cage made a mental note to ensure Riley had curbed her other online activities, or at least masked them. "We've already been here longer than we should have. Every day we stay increases the chances that they'll find you."

"I know. I'm being careful."

That was about as far as she could get on coms and she knew it, so Cage let it drop.

"Speaking of our stay, Matty checked in an hour ago." It was Bozer, clearly uncomfortable with the silence.

"Did she have any news?"

"Only that Jack's ex, Sarah Adler, wasn't too happy she'd been left out of the loop. Turns out Jack actually had one or two other people at the CIA who liked him. They're looking into the State Department and said they'd get back to her."

That Matilda would have tried to keep Adler away from this wasn't a surprise. The woman was probably already on a flight.

Nothing to be done about it now. Frankly, they could use all the help they could get.

Seven days. It had been seven days since Mac crashed in a helicopter and Jack staggered off into the woods. And they'd heard nothing. Dalton couldn't have survived his injuries. While Riley had found the flare, and the blood in the ranger's station had turned out to be O negative, that was the last piece of actionable intelligence they had on him.

She'd had analysts at Phoenix expand Riley's search to mortuaries and cemeteries days ago. The only thing they were missing was his body.

As for Mac, there was no reason to believe he wasn't still with Colonel Aydin. After seven days, if Mac was indeed still alive, he was probably wishing he wasn't. If any Phoenix agent could escape a military compound, it would be MacGyver. That even he hadn't been able to establish contact with them . . .

_You bring our boys home._

Cage glanced at the rear view mirror, well aware that she'd been quiet too long. "What's the address for the event tomorrow?"

"Uh . . . snazzy hotel downtown. I'm downloading the guest list and I'll check it to see if any other names look familiar."

"Thank you. See you in fifteen."

-M-

There was one last piece of baklava, and it was off the plate and into his mouth almost without touching his fingers.

Second Lieutenant Cenk pulled a glass from the cabinet, filling it at the sink as the honey and pistachios played a symphony in his mouth. He was damn lucky, in a house with Hakan and Osman, that there was any food at all.

Zhan was seated at the round wooden table, buried in his laptop, and Cenk filled his glass from the sink and pulled out a chair, turning it around and straddling it backwards.

"You swallow like a camel."

He gave the major a look. "Good evening."

Their resident Egyptian didn't bother to look at him, his permanent scowl in its place, and Cenk continued to swallow as loudly as humanly possible until Oguzhan – Zhan – finally leaned back.

"Allah be my guide, I will shoot you."

"You tried that once," Cenk reminded him, pointing with his now-empty glass. "See how that turned out."

The major's expression was still his normal foul one, so the second lieutenant was fairly certain he was still on neutral ground, and after a moment the man muttered in Arabic and went back to the laptop.

"So. Did the name check out?"

A subtle shake of his head. "It is incomplete. I need his surname."

Cenk blinked. "That _wasn't_ his surname?"

Zhan eyed him over the lip of the laptop. "It's Scottish," he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Cenk just stared at him, then shook his head. "No wonder he didn't want to tell us."

The major's eyes dropped back to his screen. "Facial recognition is still running. Liris has more powerful systems at her disposal, she's checking social media. She will contact us if she finds anything."

Cenk would be amazed if the NSA allowed their agents to exist on social media platforms as anything other than their aliases. He looked up. "What about Luka Morrow?"

"Not useful. The alias is very well crafted."

They had essentially exhausted everything Cenk knew about computers, and the kitchen settled into a comfortable silence.

"What about the other agent?"

Zhan ignored him for a moment, and Cenk grinned, and then got up with exaggerated slowness and headed back to the sink. Behind him, there was an irritated huff.

"If I tell you, will you go away?"

He filled the glass, grinning to himself, and reclaimed his place at the table. The glass he set in front of him, full and untouched.

"That will depend on how interesting your story is."

He knew Zhan was itching to tell someone; the rest of the team had been either indisposed or off-site. Hakan was trying to keep the same schedule as their American – Angus – to continue his evaluation, and Kenan was gone to complete the security evaluation of their new training center.

It wasn't like Zhan would deign to speak to the new recruits, and the colonel had no interest in half-done work.

He was right. A few seconds later, the major's scowl lightened somewhat – the Egyptian smile, they called it – and he turned the laptop so it was visible to both of them.

"Our American friend was definitely special forces," he started. He had footage from a camera, mounted outside the Istanbul Archeology Museum. They'd known where the cameras were, and had taken precautions, so the video showed very little besides well-armed, hooded mercenaries and the agent. Still, it was impressive to watch him fight.

Hakan had taken the upper path, coming just to within the agent's peripheral vision, and rather than glancing up the hill, the red-shirted agent had actually looked in the other direction, towards the street – anticipating that Hakan was a distraction – and reached for his weapon, forcing Kenan to move.

At the time, they had been keen to suppress weapons fire, and after being disarmed, the American had shown some excellent knife evasion tactics. As Cenk watched, he danced out of range of two jabs, then moved in and used a leather wrist cuff to deflect the blade, taking control of it and actually disarming Kenan before Hakan had managed to get down to them. Once it was a two to one fight, the agent had gone down quickly.

Of course, that wasn't counting the second fight, also between the three, that had very nearly ended quite differently. It was clear the American agent hadn't been anticipating them any more than they him.

"Yes. It's a shame Arda shot him."

"It's a shame Arda didn't kill him," Zhan grumbled. He closed the surveillance footage and opened up a map of the region. The park was highlighted, and the major indicated the brown square.

"He walked almost four kilometers to a ranger's station. No radio, no evidence he called for help. A flare was seen by the army, when they sent their men, he was gone. They searched a 3 kilometer radius of it and never found a sign of him."

All of that was in the military's report. "There are many wolves in that park."

"But not many people." The major's voice was thoughtful. "We chose that location due to the lack of infrastructure keeping the tourists away. Even the park police don't frequent the area. There is nothing there."

Cenk picked up the glass of water, momentarily forgetting their arrangement, and at a dark look from the major he quickly set it back down. "Sorry. I do not see what you're saying."

Zhan traced a road that wound in a wide loop around their selected exfil location. "This road is frequently used by the Roma. They camp illegally in the parks, keep their fires small to avoid detection."

The closest swing of that road was still a few clicks from the brown marker. "Why would Romani go towards a flare if they are in hiding?"

The major looked slightly surprised. "Perhaps not so much in Turkey, but in Egypt, the Roma use fireworks to signal to other Roma in the area if they wish to meet or trade."

So the American had sent up a flare, hoping to be found by the army, but instead had been found by Roma. But Cenk shook his head.

"They are an isolated people here in Europe. They do not trust. They would never help someone, particularly not an American, unless he was Romanipen. Adopted by gypsies," he clarified.

Zhan spread his hands. "I have found money to be an effective language in speaking with Roma."

Well, there was that. "I am fairly certain we still have the agent's wallet. He had no money with which to bargain."

The major gave him another Egyptian smile. "He would not need money. He would simply need not to die."

The second lieutenant thought that over for a moment. There had been a spate of kidnappings of Americans in Turkey of late, though he had no belief it was being done by Roma. Still, if they thought he was a tourist, rather than a soldier, they may have been inclined to treat his wounds and ransom him back to his country.

"I don't suppose you have any contacts within the Egyptian Roma community?"

The scowl returned. "Even if I did, I would not use them for this. The Roma communities are not so loyal to one another as all this. I would have to go make some new friends."

It had been seven days. The American must have been near death. If he was being treated by Roma, rather than conventional medicine, chances were he was still immobile. The Roma would keep him sedated until they had made their sale. If an offer had already been made to a US embassy, it would have trickled its way back to them by now.

Of course, there was no guarantee that he hadn't simply continued walking and died where he fell.

Still. Even if he was dead, the concept had merit. They could use the possibility of his survival to lure the ones seeking him out of hiding. Find out what they knew.

And have a secondary plan in place, in case Angus failed them.

"I think Kenan would approve," he observed, picking up his glass of water and standing. "After all, he just asked me to make a new friend. No need to exclude you."

-M-

I just had a conversation with **Gib** related to accuracy in fanfic. None of you have commented on it, but I wanted to let you know: just about every detail about Turkey - Erdogan, the Roma, the park, the ranger station, the distances, the names of cities and streets, the travel time, the Turkish names and language – all of that is real.

I have no idea what authors did before the internet.

Also – there's no way in hell this will be done by Thanksgiving. I will hit the 50K words for NaNo, no prob. This monster probably won't be fully resolved til Christmas.

Hope you're all in for the long haul.


	7. Chapter 7

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

**SEVERAL DAYS LATER**

Something had changed.

It took him a while to nail it down, but eventually he decided he was at a carnival. There was music in the air, it had a very eastern European feel. Many voices were laughing and shouting, though he couldn't pick out the language.

The rumble of the truck was gone, as was the feeling of motion.

And it smelled like cows.

Jack opened his eyes, staring now not at muslin but something opaque, and further away. It was hot, but not oppressively so, and he shifted his head to his right, surprised to see nothing but neatly stacked bales of straw beside him.

No wall of a truck.

Jack picked up his right wrist, and it actually moved. It was bare, save what looked like a discolored iron cuff, and there was a muffled metallic clinking mixed in with the hissing of the straw.

The chain came into view, and he followed it into the thick wall of straw, where it presumably terminated in something solid. An experimental tug didn't get his wrist any closer.

His head was swimming, but he lifted his left arm, confirming with his ears it was similarly chained. He could hear chewing, one straw stall over, so he figured that was why it smelled like cow.

Jack Dalton swallowed back the taste of something bitter, and then he picked up his aching head.

It was definitely a tent. There was a wide flap, about ten yards from the lump he hoped was his feet, but he wasn't lying directly in front of it and could only catch a few shadows flitting by. The light outside made it look about mid-day; the straw by the edge of the tent shone a brilliant yellow.

As he stared at the glow, he began to appreciate the halo effect, and Jack groaned and dropped his head back to his prickly straw pillow.

Yep. Definitely drugged.

Jack found that he honestly didn't really give a shit, and drowsed in and out for a while, listening to the cow happily munching away, and the rush of people passing. The language was starting to grow on him. It was almost like he was in Ludhiana, except all the Indians were speaking with heavy European accents. It wasn't supermodel, but it had the same melodic flow.

On a whim, he picked his head back up, looking at his body. It was curiously numb, and invisible under a pile of old towels and blankets. Some were faded, others were vividly colored, and all showed signs of repeated mending.

A shadow by the tent flap caught his attention, and Jack winced as the flap was pulled back, letting in _way_ too much light. It closed soon enough, to rapid footsteps on the straw, and Jack tried to blink the purple spots out of his eyes.

There was a figure, standing there. The sleeves of his ivory shirt were rolled halfway up his forearms, a dark brown vest complimented lighter brown trousers, and he was wearing an aviator's cap.

Jack blinked again.

The man's face split into a wide grin. "Aha!" he exclaimed, and then he approached, plopping down like a little kid right next to him.

Jack could only watch, bemused, as the man dug Jack's limp right hand out of the straw and pumped it in an exaggerated handshake.

"Hello, American!" he said, and beamed.

Jack swallowed again, trying to get his cotton tongue in working order. ". . . wha . . ."

But the man – and clearly he was a gypsy, no one else would look like they'd just train hopped in from the 1950s – clapped his hands in delight. "Basha!"

Jack gave an uncoordinated nod. _Basha to you too, pal._

". . . where . . ."

The man's eyebrows raised, shifting the too-small cap further back on his head. "Where . . . ah! Where is village! Safe."

Jack picked up his right wrist and rattled the chain.

The man's happy expression fell, just a moment, but soon he recovered. "Safe!" He threw his arms wide. When Jack just kept looking at him, he sighed, and put his chin in his hands for a moment.

"Ayi . . ." he commented, in a slightly more normal tone. "Safe . . . eh . . . polis?"

". . . police . . .?"

The man snapped his fingers. "Yes! Polise! Eh . . ." He held up his hand, made a fist, and then extended his thumb and index finger in the universal sign for a gun.

Okay. That made a little more sense.

". . . soldiers," Jack supplied, and the man nodded emphatically.

"Yes." He pointed at Jack. "Safe."

That was right around the time a quick hit of adrenaline started clearing out the cobwebs.

"Basha!" the man called again, and Jack realized he was actually calling for someone. That was probably not a good thing. He tried to struggle onto his elbows, but his wrists were pulled too far apart and it was hard to brace on the straw beneath him. The moment he tried, an overwhelming, dull wave of pain radiated up from his abdomen and Jack collapsed back to the ground, panting through clenched teeth.

Yep. Still shot.

"Ayi!" the gypsy cried, sounding sincerely distressed, and then the tent flap crackled open, and there were more footsteps.

"Basha! Anneni al!"

The other person was gone in a flash – probably being sent for reinforcements. It didn't really matter. Jack knew immediately that he wasn't going anywhere. Even if they didn't have him chained up, his limbs were too heavy, his head was stuffed with cotton. It wasn't just the drugs.

He'd had enough infected wounds to recognize those symptoms.

Jack tried hard to get in a deep breath. "Phone," he managed. "I need . . . a phone."

_And a fucking hospital._

The gypsy babbled at him, sounding anxious, but none of it was in English, and Jack was just starting to get the pain under control when the tent flap crackled again.

He made out a small shape, he couldn't have been more than thirteen years old. Beside him was another man, roughly the same age as the one sitting beside him, and aviator cap leapt nimbly to his feet, hurrying to the opening of the tent to confer with the other man as the boy approached.

Jack watched him, but all the kid did was stand at his feet and stare at him. He tried a smile, and got about as far as he had with Riley when she was that age.

Kids.

Then again, he probably didn't look so good.

The two men came back over, the one in the aviator cap clapping his colleague on the back. "Mirga," he said, and the other Roma looked at him with dark, glittering eyes.

Something about him made Jack's skin crawl.

"I have English."

_. . . kind of, buddy. Kind of._

Jack unclenched his jaw with effort. "Phone."

The man said something, and aviator cap replied.

"No."

Okay. This was not going well.

"You're in danger." If Colonel Aydin's men had figured out he was still alive, there was no reason not to think they'd come finish the job.

Another quick conference. "No."

Jack glared at the man. "Uh, yeah you are."

Mirga shook his head. "You are hidden. Soldiers not find you here, if you are quiet."

Which got back to his original question. "Where am I?"

This time Mirga didn't need to confer. "With Roma."

 _Well no shit._ "What . . country is this?"

"Europe."

Even Jack knew Europe wasn't a country. Hell, Mac'd –

A quick flash of panic flared in his chest, and Jack fought to keep it off his face.

_Shit. Mac._

"How long?"

Mirga spread his hands. "How long . . .?"

"How many days have . . . I been here?"

Mirga turned back to the first gypsy, who pulled off the aviator's cap to scratch his head.

The boy, who had been silent at his feet this whole time, said something. His voice was light and husky, as if it belonged to someone quite older.

Mirga confirmed it with aviator cap. "Many days. You are sick."

Many days.

Jack couldn't touch his face, or see much of his body, so he glanced at his right hand, looking at his fingernails. They looked fairly clean, and they weren't alarmingly longer than they had been the last time he'd clipped them.

Many days was relative. Maybe a week, maybe a little less.

_Jesus._

"Why am I tied up?"

Mirga translated, then listened carefully as aviator cap launched into a small dissertation. He nodded, face betraying nothing, and after almost a minute of listening to the explanation, he frowned.

"You are not safe."

Well, that was a hell of a summary. Jack frowned back. "What do you mean?"

Mirga seemed to be looking for the words. "You hurt his wife. You . . . hurt others in your sickness."

A cramp that had nothing to do with the wound curled around his stomach, and Jack let his head drop back to the straw with a quiet curse. He had vague memories of . . . creatures, monsters that were tearing him up. He remembered trying to catch them, trying to hurt them back –

_Christ._

He'd seen it with his own eyes, in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran. Guys waking up delirious in med bay and trying to escape men and bombs that weren't there. There was a reason they had medical restraints on those beds.

" . . . I'm sorry." He shook his head, briefly unable to look at them.

No wonder the kid was keeping his distance.

"It is sickness. We have seen it before." Mirga managed to make it sound like no, they hadn't, and he was a monster. "You are sick still. Goral buys you medicine."

Jack glanced over, and aviator cap patted his own chest. "Goral," he clarified.

Speaking of . . . "I need a hospital."

Mirga shook his head. "You are not safe there. Soldiers."

"I'm not safe here!" he snapped, then bit back his anger with effort. "Neither are you. I need a phone. I need to call . . . my wife."

Mirga was unmoved. "We are Roma. We have no phone."

Jack closed his eyes briefly. That was a steaming pile of cow patties. He'd personally had two phones lifted right off his person by gypsies in Germany and Hungary, respectively.

But there was something else he knew would appeal to them, if family wouldn't. "I can pay."

Mirga translated that to Goral, who immediately shook his head. "No no no no," he said quickly. "No money. Help!"

"Goral says they want to help you only. No payment."

Oh yeah. Now it was starting to stack up thick and deep.

The tent flap crackled again, this time admitting a jingling woman who seemed somehow familiar. She was carrying a basket, and as she approached the party she took one look at him and then frowned mightily.

Jack blinked up at her.

Just blinked. That was all it took.

If he had thought Goral's dissertation was long, it was nothing compared to this woman. Mrs. Goral, he presumed, let loose with a never-ending string of words, without any need to stop for breath or punctuation. Her voice rose and fell, enunciating certain words with painful precision, and all the while she placed a series of jars on the straw beside him, slapping the men away when she decided they were standing too close.

Mirga caught Jack's eye, and spoke over her. "She does not like you."

Jack just nodded, slowly. "Yeah," was all he said. He didn't see any bruising, but she was covered from shoulder to foot in at least three complete outfits. There were multiple skirts, multiple shirts, necklaces, beads, at least four earrings per lobe, and piercing brown eyes that were almost black.

In them he could read fear. Fear and resentment.

_Lady, I'm sorry._

She shook up a jar that was rather murky, then unscrewed the lid and held it aggressively to his face. He picked his head up, just to give it a sniff, and she tipped it right into his mouth.

Jack sputtered, laying back flat to escape her, and she started screaming as if nursing him had just become an exorcism. Goral flew to her, crouching beside her and stroking her back, and she gesticulated wildly, first to the jars, then to Jack, and finally to the heavens.

Jack glanced over their heads, to where Mirga stood calmly, simply watching with his black eyes.

"What is that?" He jerked his chin at the jar, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

"Medicine."

It was the kind of medicine that was going to knock him out. He could still taste it, and it made his stomach churn.

Goral spoke over his shoulder to Mirga, who could somehow hear him over Mrs. Goral's laments, and the other gypsy frowned slightly.

"Goral says you should drink it."

Yeah. He just fucking bet Goral did.

Jack relaxed for a moment, letting his head fall back onto the straw.

_You don't got a lot of options here, Jackie boy._

Mac would probably weave the straw together into a lockpick and use the medicine as a bomb to escape, but he wasn't Mac and he wasn't going to get far without help. He couldn't feel much below his waist, but he knew there was another bullethole down there. If he was really in the middle of a gypsy settlement, no one was going to help him.

They were either going to ignore him, actively attempt to return him to Goral, or take him themselves. There was a reason the US had issued a travel advisory to Turkey. Americans were going missing, only to be 'found' after a payment was rendered.

_Dude, if that's your play, I really feel sorry for ya pal._

Jack took a moment to wonder if Matty would actually pay a ransom. Probably depended on how long it had been.

She might just assume it was a con, seeing as he was probably declared KIA by now. Hopefully she'd been spending her time getting backup to Mac.

Jack wasn't going anywhere, gypsies or not, until he got out of those manacles. For now, playing along was his best bet. At least they didn't want him dead.

Well, at least _some_ of them didn't want him dead.

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," he added, and he found Goral's eyes, made sure he kept them as he nodded. "Thank you."

Goral nodded back vaguely, not understanding, and then the light bulb went off. "Yes! Medicine!" he declared, and then he took the jar from his wife, who continued to vacillate between bemoaning her life and cursing it.

It was exactly what he thought it was. Jack ended up choking down a good bit of it; he didn't have a choice. Goral got his yes and wasn't about to risk Jack changing his mind. He was able to spill some of it pretty convincingly, but the gypsy still got more of it into him than he would have liked.

"Yes! Good medicine!" Goral praised him, and then held up the next jar. When he opened it, a pungent aroma of turmeric, vinegar, and dirty feet rolled out, and Jack gave him a long look.

Goral's eyebrows shot for his hairline, again, shifting the aviator's cap even further back. "No?"

". . . no."

A warming rush was starting to blossom up from his stomach, and Jack took the time to wonder just exactly what kind of drugs gypsies would be using for this purpose.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was dark.

-M-

The computer chimed softly, and she set down her cup of noodles, toggling to the flashing window. The image wasn't hi res, it looked like a printed photo that had been scanned after the fact, but it was good enough. The software had highlighted his smiling face, and Liris studied it a moment, bringing up the reference photo.

It was undoubtedly the same man. Young, like the other soldiers around him, arm in arm after receiving their crabs. It couldn't have been more than four years ago.

US Army, graduation as Explosive Ordinance Disposal technicians.

The caption held the other highlighted term, the keyword 'Angus.'

She memorized the name and then swiveled in her chair, swapping one keyboard for the next. MIT's system had very little, just a passport photo of his alias' entry to the country the week prior, and Liris studied that photograph as well.

She returned to the first computer, launching a VPN in New York and starting a simple Google search. There wasn't much. A mention from an elementary school's website in Mission City, a few people finder websites. She brought up TLO's database under an alias, and got a current address in Los Angeles, a phone number, a credit score, and a record that he was affiliated with MIT.

Her fingers faltered before she remembered that in the US, MIT was the abbreviation for a university, and unrelated to Turkey's own MIT intelligence agency.

Whatever intelligence agency he was affiliated to, it wasn't obvious in any of the records.

She sent the name and a request for the Army files to a colleague downstairs, then picked up the phone.

It rang several times before the call connected, giving her the tone indicating the line was secured and encrypted.

"Go."

"Your American is Angus MacGyver," she said without preamble. "He's an Army bomb technician."

A brief silence on the other end of the line. "What else?"

"Nothing on affiliations yet."

"What about the other inquiry?"

Liris shook her head silently. The other inquiry indeed.

"If you mean the Russian malware attack, I can confirm it started by targeting facilities near Istanbul and spread out from there. No information on the hacker."

Annoyingly, frustratingly, impossibly no information on the hacker. If it was truly some pimpled teenager in the Ukraine she would eat her shoe. The malware had been subtly altered to specifically target Turkish code, and not just that, but crappy code. Perhaps that was just the skill of the developer, and not the script kiddie using it, but the malware mod was masterful, and had been evolving over the course of the attack.

Every detectable signature indicated this was being done by the Russians. If the NSA truly were behind it, they had clearly recently made an excellent hire. And if they had this skilled of a coder, she would not expect that resource to be tasked to find one low-level agent.

There was something very special about these two Americans. Once more, the colonel's instincts had been correct.

"Can you confirm they were looking for the American?"

As if an ever-spreading circle of attacks emanating from Cillingoz Tabiat Park into Greece, Bulgaria, and Turkey didn't confirm it. "No. I'd have to see an attack in progress to tell you what they're looking for."

"Can you do that?"

Not for the first time, she wondered if it was because she was a woman, or because she made it sound so effortless. "Not easily. How important is it to you?"

The Egyptian was quiet a moment, obviously thinking. "Not critical," he finally admitted. "We have another way."

"I will pass along additional information as it becomes available."

Liris disconnected, and then stared at the screen for a moment.

There was another way to find that NSA hacker, too.

-M-

This was too long to post as a single chapter, and has been broken into two. It is meant to be read in the same sitting. Please continue to the next chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **NOTE** : Two chapters were posted simultaneously. This is a continuation of the previous chapter, and they are meant to be read as a single "day." Please make sure you read Chapter 7 before you hit Chapter 8.

-M-

"What'd that keyboard ever do to you?"

Riley very carefully didn't fling it at his face.

Most of her wall of monitors was now covered with a very detailed map of the region. As more deeds cropped up, the algorithm was adding the properties to the map in the form of tiny green houses. It reminded her a little bit of the plastic Monopoly pieces she'd always lose. He never got mad, they made a game of substituting in whatever other knick-knack they could find-

The hacker forced the thought away, before it could cross her face.

"It's not the keyboard."

"Well you were sure hammering on it like it was." Bozer's tone was light. He'd been walking on eggshells for days and it was really starting to bug the shit out of her. It was almost worse than the relentless flirting.

She gestured at the wall. "That look like anything to you?"

Bozer finally came into her line of sight, a few steps in front of her. He was wearing his apron - probably had come up to tell her lunch was ready. Wearing coms 24-7 was not as comfortable as wearing earbuds, and her right ear was sore from accidentally falling asleep with hers in last night.

Morning. Whatever. Either way she'd pulled it out and hadn't put it in since.

Wilt cocked his head to the side, even going so far as to bend so that he was viewing the map at a 90 degree angle. "Uh, Spaghetti Junction?"

She frowned. "Like the cartoon?"

Bozer straightened and gave her an incredulous look. "Atlanta. You know, where 85 and 285 hit? Spaghetti Junction?"

She stared at him. "Dude. We live in Los Angeles. Rage inducing traffic capital of the word?"

He shrugged, turning back to the map. "Hey, it's not a competition, but let's just take a little road trip to Atlanta on Labor Day weekend. You can't tell me you never went to Dragoncon."

"Hmm. Nerds in costumes. Pass."

He gave her a slightly reproachful look. "Oh, right. You went to the conventions where the nerds _weren't_ in costumes. My bad."

Riley tried to glare at him, but he had a point. "Whatever. Seriously, do you see a pattern in that mess?"

She came to stand side by side with him, hoping the perspective change would do something. "The red lines are the routes I could confirm some of Aydin's men took with the crates."

"Okay. Why do they turn yellow?"

"That's when I lost track of them. So that's my best guess."

"Aaand . . . The green dots are Count Dooku's properties."

She hit a key, zooming them out slightly more. "Yep. And anything that Aydin, or any of his family and known associates own. Which isn't much since Erdogan froze his assets."

Bozer stared at the wall a long time. "And you think this'll tell us where they took Mac?"

There was the million dollar question. "I dunno. They're scattered like roaches. Some stayed in Turkey, some look like they went into Bulgaria . . . if he's staging camps, I can't figure out targets _or_ a central command."

A small video chat window appeared in the bottom right corner of the map. McMurtrie wasn't looking into the camera, and the angle made his expression especially grim. "Incoming. Sixty seconds out."

Riley glanced at Bozer, who looked as wide-eyed as she felt, and she put her back to him and whipped off her t-shirt.

He was already gone by the time she'd kicked off her yoga pants, and she snagged the maid's uniform off the corner of the mirror and threw it over her head. She was still futzing with the collar buttons as she sprinted out into the hall, and she kicked the bathroom door with her heel.

"We got company!"

Only the briefest of pauses. "Acknowledged."

Riley flew down the stairs, her bare feet slapping the hallway tiles as she did a quick check in the mirror. Her hair was a disaster, and she strategically yanked a few bobby pins out, letting the rest down before looping it into a quick bun. She was still three bobby pins short when the doorbell chimed.

"Shit," she muttered, casting around for her shoes. They were in front of the library door, right where she'd left them, and she slipped into the ugly black loafers as quickly as she could. In the library, Saito mouthed the word 'three', and silently closed the french doors, melting into the corner in the front of the room. Riley took a deep breath, smoothed the uniform's front, and then entered the main foyer, keeping her pace slow and steady.

Apparently whoever it was was used to waiting for the staff to take their dear sweet time, because they didn't lean on the doorbell, and she unlocked and opened the main door with a smile.

" _Herete_ ," she greeted the men. Saito was right; all three of them were at the door, in starched Greek officer uniforms. The black State sedan behind them appeared empty. One of them was holding a large white box.

Everything McMurtrie had told her scrolled through her head like compiling code _. Don't offer to shake hands. Don't reach for anything if it's not offered. Be more casual than the normal hired help. Don't bow. Do not let anyone hurry you. Do not interrupt anyone._

"We are not expected," one of the men said, in accented English. "Is the Lady King in?"

She was. In the shower. Upstairs.

Riley almost inclined her head before she remembered _don't bow_ so she turned it into what she hoped wasn't an awkward nod, and took her cue to stick with English. "She is. I will fetch her for you. May I say who is calling?"

"We have a message from General Doukas," the first man said briskly, clearly waiting for something, so Riley stepped back and opened the door.

"Please," she said with a smile, and indicated the parlor.

The three men removed their military covers and stepped into the cool foyer, taking a quick look around. Once all three were inside, she closed the door, and then looped around them, trying to usher them into the parlor.

"Is that a baroque harpsichord?"

The third officer was resisting her herding attempt, taking a step back to peer through the library doors.

Not only was Saito in there, all of Bozer's daily makeup cases were stacked under the enormous walnut desk. They weren't visible from the hall, but if he went inside -

She kept her polite smile fixed in place, hesitating as he approached the french doors, and then the second officer stopped, glancing down the hallway. He swatted his companion in the chest with his hat.

"Omar, can you smell that?"

And the two headed not for the parlor, but the kitchen.

Riley clasped her hands in front of her, glancing inquiringly between the two groups of soldiers, and almost sighed in relief when harpsichord boy seemed happy to follow his colleagues, still carrying the box. He made no move to hand it to her, and Riley just gave him a smile and followed the men helplessly down the hallway.

They pushed through the swinging kitchen door like they owned the place, and Bozer looked up from behind the massive granite island. He was in love with the kitchen; the villa had been designed for entertaining and it was fully of shiny new appliances and enough counter space to sleep five. The island was covered with platters; Bozer had pretty much taken over all cooking duties by the second day, and he took his responsibility very seriously.

Riley was pretty sure no agents in Phoenix history had ever eaten so well on an op.

Whatever was on those plates, it looked like a cross between traditional Greek and Taco Tuesday. There were pans of the beef eggplant thing - moussaka, maybe - and artfully arranged rows of dolma, all perfectly wrapped and with small balls of mozzarella cheese between them. There were some kind of fajita tacos, but in Greek flatbread, and several large bowls of various toppings and cold salads.

There was enough food on that island for a dozen people. And thanks to these three bozos, there actually _were_ a dozen people in the house.

The house that was only supposed to have three people in it. The Lady King and her servants.

The three officers looked over the spread, and Bozer stared at them, almost blankly, and kept drying his hands with a kitchen towel. Over and over and over -

Then his eyebrows shot up. "You will eat!" His voice had a heavy Kenyan accent, and behind the officers, she widened her eyes slightly in warning.

_Boze, are you kidding me?!_

He grinned broadly at them, and spread his arms wide. "Yes! Come!"

The second officer glanced at the first officer who had spoken, whom Riley presumed was the ranking officer. "I feel like we're early to the party."

"Ah! Party, yes," Bozer agreed, and Riley shook her head furtively. The Lady King couldn't be holding a party at one in the afternoon if she was going to Count Dooku's stupid ball at eight.

"-but not here," he added, with just the tiniest bit of doubt in his voice. The accent, however, never wavered. "Birthday party!"

He quickly hung the hand towel on the oven handle, gathering three plates and handing them out. "For the Lady's friends."

The officers accepted the plates he all but shoved into their hands, and the large white box was set down on one of the counters. The officer didn't seem overly concerned about it, or take any special care with it, and Riley hung back by the doorway, just until she caught Bozer's eyes.

She was supposed to be getting the Lady King, after all.

He gave her a very subtle nod, and without a word she turned on her heels and pushed open the kitchen door. As soon as it swung shut behind her she made a conservative beeline for the stairwell.

The Lady King was just coming down the stairs, in a floor length peach-colored silk bathrobe that might as well not have even existed. Her hair was wrapped up in a fluffy white towel, and despite the fact Riley knew she'd been in the shower less than two minutes ago, her makeup looked natural and perfect.

Her expression didn't change when she saw Riley, who met her at the bottom of the stairs. "Three of Dooku's men in the kitchen. They brought a box. Bozer's trying to explain away all the food."

She merely nodded, walking past her 'maid' quite calmly, and Riley tagged along behind her as Cage swept straight into the kitchen.

The door swung open, and Bozer's voice was still going. "- her daughter. Very nice little girl."

"Gentlemen." All three officers turned, almost guiltily, and Riley saw that Bozer had been successful in getting them to dig in. The Lady King merely smiled, sidling up to the closest officer and tilting her head just so.

When she did that, Riley caught sight of a small grey stain, near the base of the wrapped white towel. It was starting to spread.

"I wasn't expecting you, Omar," Samantha murmured, before she reached around him - almost brushing his chest - and selected one of the marinated mozzarella balls from a platter.

"Ah, Lady King," he greeted her, casting around uncomfortably for somewhere to put his plate. "I apologize for the intrusion -"

"It's no intrusion," she assured him, choosing to bite the cheese in half rather than eat it whole. She still hadn't backed out of his space, and he was completely mesmerized.

The man swallowed, and Cage let him off the hook, easing around the island to survey the spread. Her expression turned to one of enchantment.

"Ah, another miracle!" she praised effusively, clapping her hands. "Bartha will be so pleased!"

Bozer accepted the praise like a Kenyan, inclining his head. He could get away with it; Riley was supposed to be a Spanish housemaid, and could not. "My Lady is too kind."

"Oh, yes! Yes, this will do just fine. I approve. You may box it when these gentlemen have finished."

She turned to the officers, hands still clasped in delight, and it did wonders for the neckline of the robe. "I have bragged and bragged about Juma's cooking, you see, and Srinivas is so proud of his chef. You know how men are. How he caters to this state function and that." She made small gestures to each side, and the officers were totally captivated.

"So I offered to make the food for Bartha's birthday - she so loves Spanish food, my Maria here has made her sopapilla so many times - but we wanted to make it Greek also, and I knew Juma would do such a fusion justice."

She suddenly focused all of her attention on the officer furthest from her, causing him to immediately agree with her, and the first officer seemed to remember they were here for a reason.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lady King. The general has sent us with a gift for you."

He gestured to the white box, which was behind her, and Cage made a show of looking extremely flattered, sweeping over to it like a princess and trailing an elegant finger over the lid.

She glanced over her shoulder playfully. "Am I allowed to open it?"

The first officer gestured again, and Cage gave a little shriek of delight and hurled the box lid into the air. Riley moved in like a shortstop for the Cubs, catching the cardboard and then stepping back to her corner, tucking it behind her politely.

And then it occurred to Riley - the back of Cage's head was now facing the soldiers.

If they saw the stain on the towel-

"Oh, my lady, it's beautiful!" she blurted, as Cage gasped and pulled out a royal blue silk gown not significantly more substantial than her current bathrobe. Cage turned towards her, as if to show her, and Riley gave her a significant look even as she gushed with her.

Riley took the spaghetti straps and held up the dress, letting Cage exclaim for some time about the embroidery and beadwork, and suggested that she press it immediately. The Lady King agreed, turning back to face the officers, and Riley stole back out of the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time to her Lady's boudoir.

Once inside, she closed the door, raising her eyebrow at the dress a moment before finding it a hanger. Once it was hung, over the folding closet door, she reached under Cage's bed for her kit. Soundlessly she slipped the device out of the front pocket, flicking it on and waving it over every inch.

Nothing. If it was bugged, the bugs weren't currently activated.

Memories of the bug - "The Thing" - she'd worn during her first solo op had her hand-checking the stitching, but there was nowhere to hide anything big enough to receive microwaves. The dress was basically a negligee.

Although a pretty classy one.

Riley made sure it was hanging straight - no need to put any wrinkles in it, but she'd be damned if she was going to iron it - and tucked her equipment back under the bed, straightening her uniform again before leaving the Lady King's room. She hit the top of the stairs just as the Lady King was escorting the officers out, and while she was in the lead she had her head turned, exposing her profile and left ear as if listening intently.

Even if they did see the stain from that angle, they'd probably think it was just a shadow.

Riley came back down the stairs, correctly guessing that Cage would dawdle to let her get the door, and when the conversation seemed to be wrapping up she unobtrusively went to open the front door. After they swore for at least the fourth time that they would convey her delight, the Lady King let them leave, waiting for them to reach the car before sweeping back inside.

Riley closed the door behind her.

She still didn't have coms in, but apparently Cage did, because she wandered over to the hall mirror, inspecting herself critically for a few seconds before she seemed to get the all clear.

Samantha turned to Riley. "What? I don't see -"

In answer, the younger woman reached up and gently tugged the towel off her head. The blonde locks were gone; her hair was now raven-black and silky, just like her wig. It had been Bozer's opinion that the general was soon going to be too grabby for the wig to continue fooling him, and Cage had reluctantly agreed.

But the dye job had been cut short, and she hadn't had time to rinse it all out. The towel was stained in several places, and Cage accepted it back, nodding as she turned the fabric over.

"Well done," she complimented.

Riley nodded. "Dress is clean."

Cage nodded again, apparently listening to something. "Clear," she called, as if in turn, and the library door opened to reveal Saito.

Bozer poked his head out of the kitchen. "All good?"

Cage held up the towel.

He winced. "Yeah, you really gotta rinse it like you mean it. I know I told you not to use hot water, but go ahead and do. I'll give it a Moroccan oil treatment, that'll gloss it back up."

Cage received a quiet comment from Saito as he passed, and continued to stare thoughtfully at the towel.

It was the first time Riley could recall the agent making a semi-permanent change to her appearance. Every other time Cage had pulled a long con for Phoenix, she'd stuck with her natural blonde. It might not have surprised the general to learn her hair was dyed, but then again it might. And they didn't want to spook him now that there was no doubt the general was aiding Colonel Aydin.

It was just taking too long to figure out where the bastard was.

Cage didn't say anything else, and Riley headed back upstairs to ditch the uniform. She hung it back on the finial of the mirror's frame, so it'd be ready for the next time she had to play 'Maria', and she adjusted her tee, checking herself in the mirror.

At least she had the tired and downtrodden maid expression down pat.

The sound of a puzzle piece clicking got her attention, and Riley went back to the wall, staring at it until she located the new green Monopoly house. It was out in the middle of nowhere, Turkey, on the wrong side of the Sea of Marmara, and she grabbed the keyboard and used the trackpad to hover over it.

Another vacation home. Purchased sixteen months ago by one of Colonel Aydin's second cousins, before the coup. She raised an eyebrow at the price tag.

"Anything new?"

Riley almost jumped out of her skin.

"Sorry," Cage murmured, toweling off her hair, and this time the white terrycloth was staying white.

Riley tried to play it off. "I'm still a little jumpy. Wasn't expecting the Storm Troopers to show up unannounced."

The blonde-turned-brunette looked thoughtful. "I expected them days ago." Something unreadable crossed her face, but then it was gone, and she wrapped the towel around her neck, gazing at the wall of monitors.

The hacker took the hint. "Well, the Empire has a lot of money." Once the term Count Dooku had stuck to General Doukas, the Star Wars lingo had expanded from there. "I'm still crawling tax records. When something pops up . . . " She gestured at the screen.

Cage indicated the closest cluster, which was in Kesan, about forty miles from their villa. "And that's the publishing house Doukas just purchased?"

Riley nodded, and highlighted it. "That's where all the renovation is taking place, and the probable destination of at least one of the cars Aydin's men took from the park."

It was the most likely location for a recruitment center. It was within an easy drive of both Bulgaria and Greece, and close to multiple ports. A lot of ways in and out.

"The electrician and plumber are locals, no online presence, but two of the concrete guys have joined the 21st century. They're not supposed to be finished with the job for another week, minimum."

Samantha digested that without comment, and Riley fidgeted. "That means another week before-"

"I know what it means," the agent cut her off calmly. She didn't add the 'be patient' but Riley heard it just the same.

And it was _really_ starting to piss her off.

"Anything else?"

"Oh, are you referring to my 'international incident'?" Riley didn't even try to mask the sarcasm. "No, not since you made me shut it down. The malware's still spreading organically, but since I'm not allowed to update it anymore, all anyone has to do to stop it is update Java. Sophos has already released a scrubber."

Cage sighed gently, and tried a different tactic. "When was the last time you slept?"

The hacker almost ground her teeth. "Am I the only person here who remembers why we're in Greece in the first place? We're here to find Mac and Jack. It's been a fucking _week_ and all we're focusing on is taking apart some massive foreign network –"

"You're here because you stowed away on an op you had no business joining," the other agent interrupted her. "An op you jeopardized by drawing unnecessary attention –"

"Unnecessary?!" Riley turned to face Cage head on. "What the fuck do you mean, _unnecessary_? You were all ready to just write Jack off –"

"And your entire argument was based upon the idea that the execution was theater. It wasn't," Samantha's voice was hard. "I didn't ask you to stop looking for him. I asked you to find another way."

Riley threw her hand up in the air. "What other way?! I've got trackers on all his aliases. I've got facial recognition software going through traffic cam footage, airports, bus stations, train stations. Someone had to have treated him –"

Cage's lips thinned, just a little, and Riley shook her head in disgust. ". . . if I wasn't here, not a single fucking one of you would still be looking for him."

Samantha cocked her head, her hands still hanging from the towel wrapped around her neck. It was a moment before she replied, and her voice was devoid of almost all inflection.

"I know you're fairly new to this life, so let me ask you this. You know Agent McMurtrie, outside? He took a bullet in the arm instead of the head because Jack was there. Saito is alive and breathing because Mac was able to make taipan antivenin out of a Land Rover in the middle of the Australian outback. There's not one agent in this house, not one, who doesn't owe their life to one or both of them. Now, what do you see _those_ agents doing?"

"Following your bullshit orders." That Mac and Jack had worked with all the agents assigned to the op didn't surprise Riley in the slightest.

Cage raised her eyebrows, then nodded. "Yes. They're following my bullshit orders. Why do you think they're doing that? Do you think they know something you don't, like where Jack is right now, but instead of disobeying me and going to him, they're sitting around downstairs eating lunch? Do you really think so little of your fellow agents? Of Director Weber?"

Riley bared her teeth, refusing to entertain that game. "I think you're playing it safe because these guys scare you, and Jack and Mac are paying the price."

Samantha's face went even more neutral, if that was possible, and she clasped her hands in front of her. "What do you think Jack would do, in this situation?"

"Well, we sure as hell wouldn't be sitting around staring at a Google map going hmm, I wonder which green dot Mac's at? We'd have already knocked the damn door down on every single one of these fucking properties and –"

"-and unless we hit them all simultaneously, we'd find Mac in none of them," Cage finished. "Jack would know that."

Riley shook her head, looking down at her keyboard in her hand for a moment before tossing it towards the bed. She didn't really care where it landed. "You know what? I'm done. I can find him faster on my own."

Cage smiled coldly. "Oh? If you think so."

Riley glared at her, expecting a challenge, but Samantha stepped back, leaving the way to the door clear. She even held out a hand, gesturing. "By all means."

And get nailed by the agent. She wasn't stupid. "Really? You're really gonna knock me out? Tie me up if I won't play nice?"

"I'll do whatever I have to." Her voice was low and serious. "You want to know what I think? I think that when it comes to you, it doesn't matter whether Jack's alive or dead. You mean so much more to him than his own life. He would die a hundred times to protect you, and it would _destroy_ him to lose you."

Riley's hands were starting to shake. "Who the _fuck_ do you think you are? You don't get to talk about him like you know him. You don't-" She bit the words back, turning away from Cage. She couldn't stand to look at that goddamned sanctimonious face. "You don't fucking get to talk."

"I don't have to. You know what he would say if he was here."

"But he's _not_!" She whirled around, gesturing furiously at the wall of monitors. "He's out there somewhere, he's been shot, he's alone, he needs our help and I-"

She glared at the map, then put a shaking hand to her mouth.

_And I can't find him._

Jack was out there, and she couldn't find him. All the cameras and servers and algorithms in the world weren't enough. He was out of her reach.

And it was _killing_ her.

Arms came around her. Not like his, smaller, but no less strong. Riley tried to pull away, but Cage might as well have been Jack for all the good it did her. She was sobbing, like some goddamned kid, she fucking _hated_ it but she couldn't stop.

Cage was silent, stroking her hair until she got her shit together. When she tried to pull away the second time, the other woman let her, and she ducked her head, angrily swiping at her face.

Fucking crying about it wasn't going to do him any good, either.

The puzzle piece click sounded again, and Riley leapt at the distraction, wiping her eyes again and swallowing back any traitorous snot. It wasn't a Monopoly house this time, it was an alert on-

On Mac.

Riley blinked again, making sure, and then she cast around for the keyboard. Turned out it had made it onto the bed after all, and she snagged it and windowed to the alert.

It just made her angry all over again.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

Cage came up beside her. "What is that?"

Riley expanded the alert. It looked like the search had originated in New York, but she recognized the first six digits of the IP as a known VPN subnet. "Some amateur just ran a background check on Mac. Like hey, maybe he's used his MasterCard in the last couple of days and we just hadn't thought to check."

She gave herself root access to the provider, scrolling down the requests until she found one with the right timestamp. Sure enough, it hit another VPN provider, this one in China. The third hop was Russia – incidentally one of the providers she herself had chosen for her completely useless malware campaign -

Riley paused, unexpectedly clear-headed for the first time in what felt like ages, and she fingered the enter key without depressing it.

"It's a honeypot," she said, and the moment she heard her voice out loud she knew she was right.

"A honeypot?"

"A trap. You leave a trail of breadcrumbs to a system that's only been partially hardened, so the person trying to break into your network thinks they've just hit the jackpot – the one unlocked window in the house."

A glance told her Cage didn't really understand. "Someone just did a search for Mac. 'Angus MacGyver' was the actual search term. They looked him up on a couple private detective databases and did a Google search. They might as well have jumped up and down and said hey, pay attention to me."

Riley nodded her head at the screen. "And if I push on this door –"

"They'll see you," Samantha finished.

Riley nodded, and immediately pulled up her security dashboard. A quick review showed everything was in order, so she hadn't tripped the trap yet, and she dropped cross-legged to the floor so she could type with both hands.

"Who else do we know that's looking for him?"

"By his real name?" Cage didn't sound happy. "Mainly US intelligence. CIA, NSA, and Homeland. The State Department shared his journalist alias with NATO and Turkish intelligence, we couldn't give them more because pulling Chevalier out of Istanbul constituted a military operation on an ally's soil without authorization."

Meaning they hadn't told Erdogan's government they were going to take away his US State Department snitch and put him on trial.

"Which means they know his name," Samantha finished quietly.

Riley glanced up at her tone. "Who? Turkish intelligence?"

Cage's expression was grim. "I don't think he's that lucky."

-M-

There was a persistent tapping at his face, and Mac winced, turning away to escape it.

"You with me, man?"

No. His head was killing him, and he just wanted to sleep –

The slap got a little sharper.

Mac squinted his eyes open, glaring murder, and Jack gave him half a grin. "There you are."

Behind his partner, he could make out the dingy concrete ceiling, and the big red "Fire Suppression System" sticker attached to a four inch pipe. White gas was hissing out of that pipe.

 _That_ got him up.

Mac sat up with a start, wincing again at his head. He felt weak and nauseous, and he was lightheaded. The room looked familiar, it was a . . . military installation? He could barely keep his thoughts together.

Military grade fire suppression system. That gas was probably Halon 1301.

If they didn't get that leak stopped, and quickly, they were going to suffocate.

Jack offered him a hand and Mac took it, letting himself be hoisted to his feet. They were in what looked like an air traffic control tower, it was a large hexagon with glass on all sides, and it looked like they were alone. It was dark; they were running on emergency lights only, and the consoles were dead.

Mac glanced around as Jack leaned heavily on the nearest counter. Halon was denser than air, that's why it was so effective at stopping combustion reactions, so the higher they were, the more oxygen they got. The room was in shambles, it looked like a small explosion had gone off, and Mac was only too aware that their symptoms might not be only related to the gas.

Jack's attention had shifted to the large windows, giving them a view of the darkened airbase, and Mac could almost see the gears turning in his head. Unfortunately, unless one of them had a perfectly cut diamond and a hammer, that wasn't going to work.

"That glass is a silicone-plastic hybrid. It's built to withstand tornados."

Instead, Mac stumbled over to the elevator, almost tripping over an overturned chair. There was no power, and the doors wouldn't budge. Mac gave up after only a couple seconds. The halon pipe should be running up the elevator shaft with the electrical conduit. Most air traffic control towers were a couple hundred feet high, pressure in the pipe should be a little over 700 psi, putting the valve about two feet from the elbow, so –

Mac eyeballed the distance, then stumbled back to the overturned swivel chair. He ripped off the height adjustment lever, returning to his mental 'X marks the spot' before digging the metal rod into the drywall by the elevator shaft.

It didn't take him long to make a decent-sized hole, and Mac dropped the lever, inserting his arm up to his chest in the wall and rooting around.

Bingo.

Mac grabbed the valve, pulling on it with all his strength. For a split second he thought he was too weak, that he'd need to chip out the hole and get the lever in there, but the valve finally began to turn with a hideous screech, and he awkwardly spun it until it no longer moved.

Fire suppression systems were designed to survive damage and single component failure, and Mac stared up at the pipe, following it with his eyes to the opposite wall. He had to find the other valve, it would be at floor level, and unless they were really lucky it was going to be behind concrete-

The white jet of gas was gone.

Mac hurried back over to the pipe, making sure it wasn't just his eyes, but the hiss was gone as well.

The leak had stopped.

Mac let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He couldn't clear the gas that was already in the room with them, but at least halon gas poisoning was treatable.

"Nice work," Jack commented. He had bent over an analog keyboard, one of the only functioning pieces of technology in the room, and his hands were hovering uncertainly.

Mac came up beside him, not quite sure why he was so damn glad to see him. It wasn't like –

Far below them, a handful of clearly Middle Eastern fighters sprinted across the open space between hangars.

A sharp pain stabbed his temple, and Mac dug the heel of his hand into it. Jack glanced up at him, still typing.

"You okay?"

Mac just nodded, taking a second look around the room. He recognized the base, but –

"What happened?"

Jack's attention was out the windows. "We played catch with a grenade."

Well, that could explain why the tower looked like it did. A second small party of fighters scuttled towards the supply depot, and Mac tried to get his bearings.

The layout of the base was familiar, but non-standard. It wasn't a typical US Air Force base, and a green, red, white, and black flag above the main array clued him in.

It was Ahmad al-Jaber Air Base.

He didn't remember coming to Kuwait.

The pain in his head swelled, stronger than before, and Mac didn't realize he'd partially collapsed until he felt arms catch him and propel him backwards. He landed in a chair, and when he could get his eyes open, Jack's face was only a couple inches from his.

"Hey. You okay?"

Mac blinked a few times, then dug the heels of his hands into his eyeballs to try to force them back into his skull. Concussion. Probably from the grenade. "Jack – what's going on?"

"ISIL. Majority of the base was in the commissary for the speech. They're still locked down. Barracks too." Jack was watching him closely, brows furrowed. "This ringing any bells?"

Not a one.

Disorientation was a known symptom of halon gas poisoning, and Mac frowned, trying to wrap his arms around his scattering thoughts. Ahmad al-Jaber was primarily a Kuwaiti base, the US only had about three hundred soldiers stationed there at any given time. But the Kuwaitis had thousands, it was a functioning military base just on the Kuwaiti side of the Iraq border. How –

"It was an inside job. Base is in lockdown." Jack gave him a little shake. "Come on, man. Override codes."

Mac blinked at him. It was an Air Force base. Why would his partner think –

Oh. Right.

". . . Jack, that was four years ago." He'd been part of the group Pena had brought over to do penetration testing on the new TASS and Raytheon security systems, before the VIP tour. It was the one and only time their unit was chosen above Navy EOD for that type of testing. He barely remembered it, and couldn't remember mentioning it to Jack, ever.

"I know, man, you've been talking about it all day." Jack was clearly trying not to sound as impatient as he felt. "We've got a couple dozen men out there, and they've got nothin' to fight with. We need to override the lockdown to the armory and ammunition depot."

The note of urgency in his voice was familiar, but -

Jack shook him again, gently. "Hey. Work with me."

Mac did his best to focus. The Raytheon system that had been installed back then had been designed to close off parts of the base in case of incursion. Which clearly this was. Depending on how much of the system had been activated –

Depending on what system was even installed now.

"Jack, it was four years ago. Tech refresh is every four years. I don't-"

"We've been over this. It's the same system, remember?"

Mac shook his head, more to clear it than to disagree. "Dude, I don't even remember coming here. What-"

He glanced up at Jack, more than slightly unnerved by his amnesia, and his eyes fell across the dark stain on the front of Jack's shirt.

His blood ran cold. "Jack, you're hit-"

The big guy glanced down at his stomach, almost blankly, and his odd behavior, his stilted speech, and the lack of bad jokes all started to make sense.

_He's in shock._

Mac was up in a flash, swapping their position, and Jack just stared down at the wound, like he hadn't even noticed. "It's not bad, we'll take care of it later –"

A stomach wound like that would take care of _him_ sooner rather than later. It must have been a piece of shrapnel, from the grenade. Something small, he probably hadn't really even felt it but it was just as serious as a bullet. Mac cast around frantically for something, a first aid kit, a –

Jacket.

"Yeah, buddy. How'd that work out for Tony Stark?"

Mac swiped the discarded piece of clothing off the floor, shaking the debris from it before wadding it up and pressing it against Jack's stomach – hard. His partner grunted, but didn't say anything, and Mac picked up Jack's right hand and pressed it onto the jacket. He got the message, keeping pressure on the wound, and MacGyver wiped his hands quickly on his pants.

Motion caught his eye, outside, and Jack jerked his chin at the keyboard. "Overrides. You gotta-"

"Yeah, I know." The ache in his temples swelled again, and Mac bent over the keyboard, half in response to the pain, half hoping the console layout would jog his memory. Raytheon had been on site for the pen test. He'd been hanging with one of the installation engineers after their explosives test on the armory door, and the engineer had been telling him how to deactivate the system if they set it off with the next test -

"Okay. When Raytheon first installed it, the default code was . . . seven digits, like a phone number. A three and a four grouping." There had been logic to it, too. "First three were the manufacturer's proprietary code, last four were . . ." A date. Maybe - "Month and day of the base commissioning?"

But something about that seemed not quite right. He snapped his fingers, taking a quick breath of less contaminated air before he ducked down, rooting around the shelving installed under the consoles. It took him a second to find one, but the red-bound SOP manual was the thickest thing there, and he retrieved it and slammed it down on the console.

Not the date the base had been commissioned physically. The date it had been commissioned on paper. He flipped to the second page of the manual, trailing a finger down the page until he found it.

"0412. April twelfth." He glanced back at his partner. "But, Jack, the odds of this code still being good after four years-"

Jack gave him a halfhearted shrug. "Try it."

He was right. What did they have to lose.

Mac closed his eyes, reaching past the pain in his head. Whatever that proprietary code had been, it had been easy to remember. The engineer had keyed it into the panel, he'd remembered the pattern on the nine digit pad rather than the numeric values.

Raytheon's logo popped into the front of his mind. A sideways triangle. 943.

"If this works, it's going to open up the whole system, not just the armory."

"Do it."

Mac hesitated, then typed in the seven digit code, and hit 'Enter.'

And nothing happened.

Mac waited a moment, to see if the emergency generators would kick in, but the lights didn't come back on. A quick survey out the window showed the same for the rest of the base. Another small party of fighters hurried between hangars.

The same number of fighters, in the same configuration as the first time.

Mac hesitated. Surely that was the gas, playing tricks –

He turned back to Jack, finding him sitting right where he'd put him, jacket still pressed to his stomach. His partner just looked at him.

"Well?"

The nausea wasn't going away, and Mac glanced back up at the pipe.

It didn't appear that any gas was still leaking, but –

". . . Jack?"

His partner continued staring at him. " . . . yeah?"

He looked like he always did after an explosion. Hair in a short kinda messed up mohawk, a little blood under his right ear. Scruffy, dirty.

But no smile. No jokes. He didn't look disoriented - he looked completely checked out.

Mac had seen him in pain before. Hell, he'd been the cause of some of it. This was different. Something wasn't right here.

"Jack," he tried again.

His partner turned his head slightly, not understanding. "Uh . . . yeah, we've been over that . . ."

MacGyver ran through everything he could remember since waking. He was on the floor, Jack came to first, got him up to stop the gas, made sure he was okay –

He glanced at his wrists, almost like he expected them to hurt. They looked fine. Jack had helped him up, and outside of the headache and weakness he didn't really hurt anywhere.

And that seemed wrong.

"Jack . . . what's my name?"

His partner stared at him blankly. And it occurred to Mac, belatedly, maybe he wasn't the only one with amnesia. "My name, Jack. Do you remember it?"

Jack hadn't used his name. Not once.

But amnesia couldn't be right. Jack remembered what the hell was going on, he remembered coming to Kuwait, talking about the pen test with him earlier that day –

"Dude. Your name's Angus MacGyver. How hard did you hit your head?"

His blood ran cold for the second time.

Mac glanced around them, but nothing had changed. They were still in the control tower. He could smell the additives in the halon. His head was throbbing.

He tried to keep his voice calm. ". . . Jack, you _never_ call me that."

"Okay, man, you need to sit down-"

Mac took a step back when Jack got to his feet, and his partner gave him a strange look.

Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.

"It's Mac." He waited for some kind of recognition in his partner's face. "You call me Mac."

Jack cocked his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Mac," he said aloud, giving it a try. "Mac. Right."

He dropped the jacket, which was now wet with his blood, and reached for the small of his back. His hand came back holding a nine mil, and in one smooth motion he raised it to MacGyver's chest and pulled the trigger.

Mac gasped.

He was desperate for air. His back was rigidly arched, tearing his muscles, and his wide eyes saw only stars. He couldn't get enough air. All he felt was panic.

It took a few more frantic gasps before his abused lungs finally felt like they were filling, and Mac slowly slipped back to the floor. A high plaster ceiling was coming into view, and he choked on the fluids still in his lungs. Someone shoved him onto his side, and he automatically curled up his wrists, coughing.

His heart, there was something wrong with it, and a strong set of tremors wracked his soggy frame. Someone braced themselves behind him, pinning him in recovery position, and Mac vomited a substantial amount of water.

Epinephrine. They'd given him adrenaline.

His nausea was overwhelming; he continued to heave long after his stomach was empty. Too soon, the presence behind him shifted, pulling him back onto his back, and Mac forced his eyes open.

Forced himself to see.

Jack was gone.

It was the medic.

The soldier shone a penlight into his eye, too bright, and when he squeezed them shut the right one was pried firmly open. Mac groaned, but he was helpless to do anything about it, and the light seared its way to the back of his brain.

God, his head hurt.

The soldier growled something, but let him go, and Mac brought his hands up together, careful of his screaming wrists, and cradled his eye sockets. His stomach heaved again, mercifully still empty, and Mac tried to curl back up on his side, putting his back to the soldier.

This time the medic let him.

He didn't know how long he lay there, waiting for the misery to abate. The epinephrine wouldn't let him pass out, Mac suffered through the hormone's half-life and the bouts of nausea, shivering violently. He could taste blood on every exhale.

Drowned.

He must've drowned.

There were voices behind him, but he was too weak and too miserable to do anything besides lay there and wait.

When one of the voices finally did cut through to him, it was in nearly perfect English.

"So. How'd that work out for you?"

Mac couldn't have said anything even if he'd wanted to, and once again he was pulled onto his back. The medic was looking down at him with a scowl.

"You should know, it will not be so easy. You will die when the colonel gives you permission, and not before."

Mac let his eyes slide past the Turk, trying to evaluate the quality of the daylight. He was still shivering, from the pain and the drugs, which meant it wasn't even afternoon. He no longer had any concept of what day it was.

"You feel like shit because you're hypoglycemic. If we don't get some glucose into you, you're probably going to have a seizure." The medic held up both his hands. In one, he held two syringes. In the other, an apple.

Mac didn't react, and after a moment the Turk raised an eyebrow.

"Can you chew or not?"

An apple. He was offering food.

Which meant he wasn't.

Mac closed his eyes and turned away.

There was a brief silence, and then the sound of teeth sinking into the crisp fruit. The soldier made no effort to chew quietly.

Then something struck his stomach.

Mac flinched a little, and the apple rolled gently across his sore abdomen, coming to rest against the waistband of his pants. The bite the Turk had taken was visible, and the meat of the fruit looked white and firm. No discoloration.

Mac glanced back at the Turk, who smacked his lips, and then shrugged at him.

"Your choice," he said.

Just because he'd taken a bite of the apple didn't mean the other side hadn't been tampered with.

Alternately, he could have the chemicals injected straight into his bloodstream.

Once more, it was the illusion of choice. Drug himself, or be drugged.

Mac thought about it for a moment, and then he reached for the apple.

And that was when he realized that, for the first time in recent memory, his wrists were no longer restrained. The zipties were gone.

Of course. Once he'd gone into cardiac arrest, they'd had no choice but to remove them to open up his chest and get him breathing again.

His hand was weak and unsteady, but he forced it closed around the fruit, and he didn't bother to inspect it. His eyesight wasn't good enough, and it didn't matter.

And that was the soldier's point.

The apple was both sweet and tart, and after so long with almost no food, and that food with almost no flavor, his tongue curled and his eyes watered. His stomach churned but didn't reject the idea outright. The Turk watched him a moment, to make sure he didn't choke, and then busied himself with putting his kit back together.

"You surprise me, American. How hard you fight, to protect your principles. I am sure you think us evil, and our methods cruel. But you will die here if you do not submit, and there are worse men you could be helping than the colonel." He zipped up the kit and looked down at him, and his eyes were hard. "One of them sits even now in our Presidential office."

Mac swallowed to clear his throat. ". . . what do you . . . fight for?"

The soldier didn't seem surprised that Mac had actually responded to him. "The same as you, I think. Freedom to live. To study. To worship. A say in our laws and our culture."

He knew it might cost him the rest of the apple, but he swallowed again and said it anyway. "Any side that . . . tortures and murders a little girl . . . is the wrong side."

He expected retaliation, but his words didn't seem to anger the Turk. Instead, the medic sat back on his heels. "Yes. We killed that man, and his family. And we killed your friend. What other language does our enemy speak? We protest, and we are shot. We speak to one another, and we are shot. We write words, and we are shot. We call upon the rest of the world for help, and we are shot."

He stood, unhurriedly, and stamped one of his feet on the floor a few times, as if it had fallen asleep. "When you have tried all the peaceful options, the legal options, and still you are shot, what is left for you then? How many little Turkish girls do you really think have been tortured and killed in this country, American, since Erdogan took power? Perhaps there is no right side. But I will fight on the people's side, all the same."

The medic turned and headed for the door, and Mac took another bite of the apple.

-M-

Happy Turkey Day!

I meant to have this done before the holiday, but the plot was taking its dear sweet time and for the sake of pacing I didn't want to post them as separate chapters. We really needed to get somewhere with all the parties, and I think we've done that.

I saw your comment, **helloyesimhere** , related to content warnings. There is going to be a content warning for torture, which I hadn't really thought I'd crossed yet (and don't think I crossed in this chapter) but I definitely will in the next. I thought it was sort of implicit in the story summary, but if I caught anyone unawares I'm sorry. I know some of us read wherever we happen to get a few minutes and don't like to unexpectedly burst into tears or get squicked out in public.


	9. Chapter 9

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **Content Warning** – somewhat graphic torture. More sensitive readers may want to skim.

-M-

**SEVERAL DAYS LATER**

"At 0200 UTC, two Black Hawks under UN credentials received authorization to land at Camp Bondsteel. Twenty minutes later, proprietary and top secret access codes were used to gain entrance to armory and supply depots. A total of 18,000 pounds of weapons and munitions were airlifted from the base in a little under an hour."

The title bar identified the speaker as NATO Strategic Commander Ian Ives. He was reading from a report that she hadn't actually seen, and he flipped through a couple pages before he decided he'd given the pertinent highlights.

"We're still taking inventory, but the majority seems to have been small arms, anti-personnel munitions, demolition supplies, and armor." His white mustache was neat and well-trimmed, and it hid his lips well. "Everything a growing army needs."

Matilda Webber clasped her hands in front of her politely. Her focus shifted to the State Department, where Director Bosch was joined by an advisor she didn't recognize. Her own peer from the CIA was present, as well as the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

He was also perusing the report. "And the origin of the helos?"

"First radar contact was in Macedonia, but they switched off their transponders when they left and we lost them in Serbia, heading northeast. No reason to think they maintained that course. The birds probably separated, and based on projected fuel and the weight of the payload, they could have covered about a thousand nautical miles each."

The Vice Chairman didn't look happy. "Did anyone interact with them? Any idea of nationality?"

Commander Ives folded his hands on his desk. "I'm a little more interested in how they got the keys to the castle."

Matty very carefully ignored the director of the CIA. It wouldn't be brought up on this call, not with the current members, but Camp Bondsteel was essentially a second Guantanamo Bay. High value targets were kept there for interrogation. It also served as a major depot for supplies for US and NATO bases in the region.

No one had mentioned exactly what 'proprietary and top secret codes' were used, but if someone had managed to get hold of UN credentials and brought in two choppers, why the hell would they take small arms? Camp Bondsteel was Candyland, and they'd swiped a measly handful of M&Ms.

"You think the leak is on our side."

The NATO commander's mustache twitched. "Last I checked, Raytheon was a US defense contractor. The logs don't lie. Those were manufacturer codes, and that security system was installed just under eight months ago."

The Vice Chairman flipped his copy of the report into a tray on his desk. "I presume you're coordinating with the region to ensure all Raytheon systems have had the manufacturer's installation codes deactivated or changed?"

A solemn nod.

"Very well. I'll notify the Joint Chiefs. In the meantime, I want everything you've got on those two birds and whoever was flyin' 'em. As for you," and it was difficult to tell exactly who he was looking at, "find that leak and plug it."

He glanced to his left, and the window disconnected.

Director Bosch cleared her throat. "Thank you for the briefing, commander. We'll keep you apprised of our investigation."

Ives' mustache twitched again. "Oh, I sincerely doubt that."

Matty carefully didn't smile. She didn't normally care for NATO, but this guy was starting to grow on her.

"Is there any footage you can share with us?"

"No can do, ma'am." He didn't miss a beat. "By the time we scrubbed it down to your security clearance, it wouldn't be useful anyway." His faded blue eyes then seemed to focus on Matilda. "Speaking of security clearance, who's this little lady?"

Matty decided to take that as a colloquialism, rather than a comment about her stature. "Director Webber, Phoenix Foundation."

Another twitch of the mustache. "Ah, a US defense contractor. Just what we need."

She gave him a polite smile. "We're a think tank, actually. We collaborate with the State Department to solve problems."

He seemed to pick up on what she hadn't said. "Well, sounds like you got a doozy of one."

"Do you have a log of all the Raytheon contractors who've had access to Camp Bondsteel for the past twelve months?"

He inclined his head. "That we can pass along. We're also working a list of NATO and Kosovo Force personnel involved with the installation and testing of the security system. I'd appreciate you looking into any similar US servicemen."

Matilda gave him a nod. "I . . . understand you can't share certain details without compromising the security of the camp. If you had to guess who was behind the theft, hypothetically speaking, where would you put your money?"

"On an idiot." The commander's response was immediate. "That was a hell of a card to play for almost nothing. Either they didn't know they had good codes, or we're dealing with a small group that has no ties to ISIS or the Middle East. The codes used would have sold for more than the weapons will. Whoever took the equipment intents to use it themselves. You're looking for a non Jihadist militia."

Matty digested that. "Can you provide a copy of the inventory once it's been completed?"

"Ish."

He was definitely growing on her. "Ish is good enough. Thank you, commander."

Director Bosch led the round of assurances and goodbyes, and once the NATO commander had left the videoconference, she focused on the director of the CIA.

"Anything to share?"

She raised an artfully manicured eyebrow. "Nothing pertinent. We're monitoring for the codes, but there's been no chatter of a sale. And I don't expect one - they'll be useless in less than 24 hours. We have several Raytheon employees of interest, but none are in the Mediterranean nor seem to have any investment in the region."

Matty was perfectly happy to let the CIA do their legwork. "We'll work on the contractor angle." She had a couple agents in mind for the undercover work, but the analyst was going to be more challenging. There was a reason the US used Raytheon systems to protect their overseas assets.

"Based on the commander's opinion, do we think this is related to the Gulan's renewed recruitment efforts?"

Matty kept her expression bland. "Isn't that a question for NATO? I thought you turned the investigation over to them."

Bosch gave her a look. "And I thought the Secretary told you to stand down."

"The only Phoenix asset in Turkey right now is my missing agent. You've done a spectacular job locating him, by the way. Mind if we take a crack at it?"

"About that agent." As if there was any other reason Bosch had pulled her into this briefing. "He was deployed by the Army to Ahmad al-Jaber as part of a security system evaluation four years ago."

That was a very specific piece of information, and Matty remained silent, letting Bosch struggle onwards.

"Ahmad al-Jaber also has a Raytheon system installed."

Of course it did. "And . . . you think an Army bomb disposal tech installed it for them?" Matty pretended to give that serious thought. "That makes sense."

"It's probable he worked with the Raytheon contractors there during the testing." Clearly Bosch was losing her patience. "He's one of your best agents for a reason. Is there any chance-"

"We have a military theft pulled off in a region crawling with unrest and armed militia groups, with zero evidence that it's linked to either the Gulan movement or Colonel Aydin, and the 'angle' you want to focus on first is whether or not my agent has been compromised?" Matty bared her teeth. "Maybe if you'd been more concerned about him _last_ week he wouldn't be-"

"We've done everything in our power to locate him, Matilda-"

"-accused of grand theft firearm," she continued. "How about considering the 'angle' that this was corporate espionage, and a dry run for a much larger campaign-"

"No one is accusing your agent of anything," Bosch tried, and Matty brought herself up short.

"Really? Because I could have _sworn_ I just heard you say my agent provided codes he couldn't possibly have to a separatist group in Turkey."

Bosch didn't look either abashed or apologetic. "You and I both know the kinds of tactics the _Bordo Berelilier_ use. He has top secret clearance and access to invaluable intel. In the wrong hands, it could do a lot of damage to US assets."

"Well, then maybe the angle _you_ should be focused on is finding him." She held up her hands. "Maybe you should start with telling NATO who they're actually looking for. No?" she added, when Bosch didn't immediately respond. "Still not willing to get a little egg on your face?"

"I'm not willing to start an international incident," Samantha responded icily. "Something you're clearly not afraid to do. Maybe we'd be further with our investigation if I hadn't been called into damage control meetings dealing with Russia's fictitious attack on Turkey's healthcare infrastructure. How'd that work out, by the way? Did you find your agent?"

Matty tried hard not to grind her teeth.

"We're continuing to do everything we can to get actionable intelligence on Batuhan Aydin and his militia. When we have it, I will do everything in my power to extract your agent." Her tone was only slightly more conciliatory. "In the meantime, get inside Raytheon and determine if the leak came from there."

The State Department window blinked closed.

Matty continued to glare at the monitor real estate it had been occupying for a moment, before glancing at her peer at the CIA. The other director made a face.

"I really don't have anything," she said honestly. "Agent Adler's on the ground digging in a few holes. She knows him and she's personally invested. If we can get him out, we will."

Personally invested was an understatement. She only hoped the agent was focused on the man who was actually still alive.

"MacGyver's had training, I presume?"

Training was relative. "Army basics and the agent course." It was a shorter version of what the CIA had been using while she'd been working there, but it still covered a wide array of techniques for resisting interrogation. She'd recently evaluated his scores and found them to be sufficient. "I have every faith in him."

The other director just nodded. "We're making strides with the other matter. Looks like your instincts were correct."

Unfortunately, that didn't make reassure Matty in the slightest. If the State Department was hiding more than an unauthorized op, that could mean a lot of things, and none of them good for Baby Einstein.

"What about the NATO commander leading the investigation?"

"Walbright?" She seemed to consider her words. "Competent. Fair. Follows orders. He has a few inroads to the Turkish military we don't. I'll pass along anything that crops up."

Matty nodded her thanks, and the final videoconferencing window closed.

She sighed, then headed out of her office, tapping the glass to shift it transparent again. It was a short elevator ride to the second floor, and she studied the analysts' fishbowl a moment before she picked out the goldfish she wanted.

"Lisa."

No, that wasn't right. Liz. The brunette responded anyway– she was getting used to it – and didn't bother correcting her this time.

"Yes, Director?"

"I need you to table your other work. I've got an op that's going to take priority." She and the blonde were the best analysts she had, outside of Riley Davis. And Riley was still best tasked with finding MacGyver. "Before you do that, I want you to set up monitoring on all communications between the State Department and NATO, specifically with a Commander Walbright or anything to the 16th Division operating out of Marmara."

The analyst nodded quickly. "Am I looking for anything in particular?"

"Military action or extraction orders in Turkey or surrounding countries."

Four days ago she wouldn't have believed the State Department would even think about issuing a kill order, but it was starting to look like they wanted an excuse. MacGyver was a lot of things, but six foot tall and bulletproof wasn't one of them. If Dalton was still with him, she'd have a little more confidence, but on his own, two weeks in . . .

She had faith in him, she really did. And she was pretty sure that he wouldn't pony up access codes to US bases, even if he had them. At least not intentionally.

Cage was pursuing the recruitment center angle, and that was their best lead to getting a solid location on Aydin. The problem was the center wasn't going to be accepting recruits for another week. Which meant leaving Mac where he was – wherever he was – for another week.

They needed to do better.

-M-

The tent flap crackled, and Jack refocused his wandering gaze, unsurprised to see it was the kid.

Basha. Or Bashavel. He wasn't sure if the -vel was a some kinda cutsey add-on, like -chan was to Japanese, or whether it was the kid's full name.

This time he was alone, and he was carrying a faded plastic cup.

Great.

Jack shifted a little, trying to sit up a bit more on his poor man's Sleep Number. He'd gotten them to agree to prop him up a little, and also to give him just a little more length with the chains. He was still 'dangerous,' as far as they were concerned, so he couldn't quite touch one hand to the other, but at least he could feed himself.

More importantly, he could relieve himself. _That_ had been a fun conversation, one that Goral's buddy Mirga had taken way too much pleasure in, and Jack was a hell of a lot more comfortable now that he was wearing clothes.

In return for his increased freedom, he'd been a good boy, not yelling for help, saying 'please' and 'thank you,' and Mrs. Goral – he was pretty sure her name was Karela, unless that was Roma for 'angry bitch' – still hated him more than the Devil himself.

Any time she could avoid him, she did. Which was why Basha was showing up more frequently.

The gypsy boy marched right over and placed the plastic cup on the straw bale they used for his table. His left hand was rummaging through his pocket, and he eventually came up with two large yellow pills that looked suspiciously like actual pharmaceuticals.

He placed the pills on the bale as well, and then stared at him challengingly. When Jack didn't reach to take them, he gestured sharply.

Jack shook his head at the kid. "We still gonna play this game?"

The boy gestured again, impatiently, and Jack grunted and picked up one of the pills.

It was stamped 'Amox 500.' Antibiotics.

Possibly expired, but something was better than nothing.

Jack put the pill back on the straw bale, next to its brother. "You should be takin' these, little bubba, not me."

Basha stared at him, momentarily taken aback, and then he babbled something in Turkish. Jack shook his head slowly.

"Kid, I know you understand me."

The boy glared at him, and said something else in Turkish that Jack himself understood plenty well enough. He laughed, then winced as his gut reminded him he really shouldn't.

"The other day, your pal Mirga was here. You answered my question before he had time to translate it." The kid had responded when he'd asked how many days he'd been unconscious. "Any particular reason you're hidin' that little fact from your folks?"

Basha continued to glare at him, silently, and Jack just sighed. "Whatever, little man. You don't wanna talk, that's cool." He picked up the plastic cup and sniffed the contents, but it didn't smell like feet for once. A sip told him it was just plain water.

He hoped it'd been boiled first.

"Pills," Basha ordered.

"No way, dude," he replied, taking another leisurely sip of water. "I told ya'. You should be takin' those. You're just as sick as I am."

Not in the same way, but he didn't miss how the kid's right hand constantly shook, and how pale he was compared to his parents. He could have been an orphan, and just more European, but there was a pallor to his skin that didn't look healthy, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

There was definitely something wrong with the kid. Something his mother's witch doctor medicine couldn't cure.

And it had to be something major, because as stinky and gut-wrenchingly vile as her potions were, his gunshot was actually healing up. He still had a fever, but he'd been awake the last couple times she'd changed the poultice, and outside of the fact his belly looked just like the needlepoint mending on the towels, the stiches had held.

His leg hadn't looked too bad, either. His left arm was no longer bandaged at all, just scabbed over, and he couldn't feel the graze on his throat at all. The infection and her 'medicine' were still keeping him weak, but in another few days he'd be strong enough to move around. He figured that would be about the time Goral would contact the nearest US embassy.

And if Colonel Aydin was half as well informed as he must have been to intercept their pickup of the ambassador, that would also be right about the time a strike team showed up and killed them all.

Basha continued to glare down at him, and then a little smirk crossed his face. "Like that water?"

Jack narrowed his eyes a little, then glanced down at the plastic green cup again. He'd already drunk half of it, and didn't taste a thing. He gave it another experimental sniff, and then another careful sip.

"I hope it makes the runs," Basha taunted. "Mother will not need to give another enema."

Jack almost spat the water across the tent. "An ene-whatta?!" He pointed the half-full cup of water at the kid. "Listen up, little man, you come _near_ me with a hose and –" His brain stalled on a reasonable threat that didn't sound totally inappropriate. "Use your imagination," he finished, a little lamely. "You know what imagination means?"

Basha simpered. "It makes big soldier cry like baby. Please, please!"

_Oh yeah. Just like Riley._

Instead of getting up and murdering the kid, Jack smirked back. "So your English is pretty good then, huh, sport."

A little of the victory faded off Basha's face, but it was instantly replaced by teenage haughtiness. "Only idiot cannot speak the language where he is."

"Hey, I'll have you know I speak plenty of Turkish," Jack snapped back. "And supermodel, too."

Basha crossed his arms. "You cannot speak anything but English, and that bad."

"Well, you're a real kechi, ain't cha?" Jack wasn't sure if it was 'catchy' or 'kitschy,' but he was pretty sure it meant 'asshole'. Mainly because that was one of the words Mrs. Goral used to describe him when she thought he was sleeping.

Basha snorted. "The cow has more Turkish!"

Jack pretended to look wounded. "Brother, did you just call me a cow?"

"Worse than cow!"

Jack pointed through his straw bale wall to the actual cow, who was next door. "That cow? Right there?"

"Da!"

"Man, that ain't even a cow. That's a damn dog." He mentally apologized to Tessa, who as far as bovine roommates went, was pretty decent. "I grew up in Texas. You know where that is? Longhorn capital of the world, bud. I wouldn't even _eat_ a shitty cow like yours."

He was fairly sure the cow belonged to Basha. Just about every time he came to the tent, he had a pocketful of oats for her, or at least a kind word. And he knew he'd struck paydirt when the boy's face twisted with rage. His answer was loud and definitely not English.

Jack smirked at him. "You know, a guy could get hungry in here, all alone with the cow dog . . ."

Basha advanced on him, balling his hands into fists, but then he hesitated, swaying a little. He reached out to steady himself, but the tent wall wasn't solid enough, and his right leg gave out from under him.

Jack reached out unthinkingly, pulled up short by the manacles, and the kid caught himself on his hands and knees, breathing through his mouth and blinking rapidly.

The spell only lasted a few seconds, and then Basha quickly climbed to his feet, his ears turning bright red. Jack held his hands palm out, easing back onto the straw bales.

The kid looked torn between rage and embarrassment, and Jack gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry, kiddo. I take it back about the cow dog." He pointed at the pills. "Really. You should take those."

The boy growled something in Roma and Jack let his hands drop, then fished in the straw for his forgotten cup. The water – or whatever it had been – was long spilled, but he set it gently back on the straw bale table.

"You take them." It was angry, but there was something else in the kid's tone.

". . . do they know what's wrong with you?"

He got the boy's eyes, briefly, then Basha snatched up the empty cup. He headed straight for the tent flap, and Jack thought the kid was history when he paused, with his right hand on the flap. The tremor was still there.

"Pills are no help," he muttered, and then he was gone with a crackle of fabric.

-M-

Second Lieutenant Cenk crossed the long hallway, not bothering to return the hasty salute throw his way, and the recruit – Eren, he thought – pushed open the heavy wooden door to the root cellar.

It was an off day, meaning they had changed up the afternoon's activity. The American's lungs couldn't tolerate any additional water, so Hakan decided to shake up their routine and let the recruits have a go. The purpose was two-fold; one, to disrupt what their American friend had mentally prepared himself for, and also to frighten him. He had grown to expect a certain level of care, knowing the more experienced soldiers would never take him to the brink of death.

The recruits were not so careful.

The table had been pushed to the edge of the room, and the American was hanging by his wrists from the lantern pully in the center of the ceiling. His blond hair was plastered flat to his head, obscuring his eyes, but Cenk was fairly certain he was still conscious. His pants and undergarments lay in a soggy puddle at his feet, and the fatigued tremor in his thighs and calves was obvious.

So he was still trying to bear some of his own weight.

He was covered in blood and water. The largest source seemed to be his wrists, but they'd also been paying special attention to the half-healed bullet wound in his hip. A couple jeep batteries were sitting on the wooden chair normally reserved for Hakan, and Cenk glanced around, unsurprised to find the sergeant behind the door.

He stepped out of the doorway and closed it behind him, and the sergeant gave him an inquiring look.

The recruit, Arda, paid him no attention at all. He jammed the positive end of a pair of jumper cables into the bullet wound, and completed the circuit using the American's other hip. The agent screamed, but he was too hoarse to get much volume behind it. Arda let the electricity run for seven, maybe ten seconds before he removed the negative terminal, and then he readjusted the positive terminal, clipping it into the freely bleeding flesh of the wound so that he no longer had to hold it.

The water made it look like a larger volume of blood than it really was. Cenk quietly evaluated the American, even as he clenched his jaw around another shout. He was pale, but not dangerously so. The stress position put a lot of weight on his lungs, which Cenk was fairly certain he'd explicitly said not to do, but his tightly stretched ribcage was still expanding just enough.

There was too much pain in his breath for Cenk to hear whether the agent was wheezing or not. They'd deal with it once he passed out.

Cenk leaned on the wall beside Hakan, waiting for another yell to mask his voice. It didn't take long for Arda to arrange.

"The colonel wants a word."

The sergeant was still scribbling in his little black book. "Now?" It was an undertone.

"Soon." He waited for the electricity to be applied again. "Arda knows not to kill him, right?"

The sergeant gave him a look, then lifted his black book a little. "Another few moments, then."

Cenk inclined his head.

Arda discarded the negative terminal, letting it dangle from the positive one already pulling at the bulletwound. The American grunted, but managed to keep it to that, and the recruit grabbed his chin, shaking him.

"Who do you work for?"

The American panted, but was otherwise silent.

Hakan elbowed him, and showed him a page, tapping his pen on a few words. _Atilla the Hun._

Cenk almost snorted. Their American was a funny fellow.

"You _will_ tell me. The truth this time."

He released the man's chin, wrapping his arm around the back of the American's neck, and then he started adding pressure. Not to break his neck; the point was to add weight to his wrists. It was quite effective. The agent screamed through his teeth, twisting on his toes, and Arda just kept steadily adding pressure.

Consistently re-aggravating the same wound was a very effective means of causing intolerable pain. Still, if they ever wanted this man to make them bombs, they were going to have to lay off his hands.

Arda was practically hanging off the American's neck, but he didn't get what he wanted, and he dealt the agent a sharp blow to the abdomen, sending him swinging off in an elliptical loop. The release of pressure coupled with the changing tension on the ropes was apparently too much. When the American agent finally swung to a stop, his legs were simply dead weight, his toes dragging through his discarded clothing. There was a whimper on every exhale, but Cenk doubted if the man was more than peripherally conscious.

Arda gave him another body blow for good measure, but didn't get much of a response. He ripped the jumper cable free, tearing the bullet wound wider. The American barely flinched. Arda finally turned around, presumably to get direction from Hakan. He snapped up a surprised salute, and Cenk returned it.

"Cut him down. I'll deal with him in a little while."

The recruit nodded, dragging the chair over to the American, and Cenk walked around the sergeant to open the door. Hakan held up a finger, and they waited for a moment while Arda produced a utility knife and sawed through the coarse rope. The agent dropped like a stone. His wrists were still bound, even if he was faking it he was too weak to overpower Arda and Hakan knew it.

Still, the sergeant waited, studying the American closely. Cenk didn't see any significant change. The agent's breathing was still elevated, his wrists were bleeding but not badly enough to make him think they'd severed either ulnar artery. His body had just started to shiver when Hakan apparently saw – or didn't see – whatever he was looking for.

He tucked his pen behind his ear and led the way from the cellar.

"Zhan and Kenan are back?"

The second lieutenant nodded, coming abreast of him as they passed the servant's kitchen and started climbing the stairs. "That's right, you were asleep. The American's code worked."

Hakan whistled through his teeth. "Ayi. What did we make off with?"

"Enough supplies to arm the new recruits, and then some."

The sergeant nodded, taking a right towards the dining room turned conference room, and Cenk took his arm and steered him across the foyer instead. "Just us."

"I feel so special now."

"You have been special for quite some time," Cenk told him, not unkindly, and the sergeant gave him a sideways look. Hakan was the newest member of their team, and he was by far the most cautious of them by nature. He was fearless in the field, and quite effective, but he had been a little hesitant to joke with them.

At some point, they were going to have to tell him that Kenan didn't bite.

Not just yet. But someday.

Cenk led the way to the library, giving their colonel a crisp salute. Zhan had folded himself into the corner, with one eye out the window towards the courtyard, and the lieutenant was near the back of the library, apparently selecting some light reading. The colonel was at the desk, but he was staring intently at the phone, and Cenk took the hint, finding an unoccupied wall and leaning against the bookcase there.

Hakan remained near the door, in parade rest.

Whoever the colonel was on with, they were just as quiet as he was. He heard very little through the speaker, then some very faint clicks.

The colonel reached out, picked up the receiver, and dropped it back into the cradle. Then he looked up, and the team moved as one, approaching the desk.

"Report."

All eyes went to Kenan. He inclined his head towards Zhan. "The major and I were able to successfully acquire basic supplies for around two thousand men. We had run of the base but logistics prevented us from taking any artillery or vehicles."

"Were you pursued?"

"Negative. We cut transponders over Serbia and hit alpha sites to refuel. We were under radar for the majority of the trip, and weather choppers for the remainder."

The colonel nodded slowly. "Who were your pilots?"

"Alim and one of the new recruits, a Second Lieutenant Feza. He'll do."

That was stunning praise, coming from Kenan, and Cenk carefully schooled his features. The lieutenant must have been impressive as hell.

"Does the American possess any additional intelligence of use?"

There was a brief silence, then Kenan looked pointedly at Hakan. The sergeant cleared his throat.

"Yes sir, I believe he does."

"I saw the American earlier today. He didn't seem terribly cooperative."

Hakan nodded. "He isn't, sir. At least, not intentionally. We've been dosing him with hallucinogens for over a week now. I asked the recruits to build me a set, something basic. We had Lieutenant Kenan stand in as his partner to give him suggestions. His mind filled in the additional details."

The colonel leaned back in his chair. "And what details were those?"

The sergeant tried to decide where to start. "He's an engineer. He's been coping with interrogation through logic, it gives him a feeling of control. We put him into a scenario with an immediate problem, easy to resolve, and a secondary one, more difficult."

"He solved it, all right," Kenan grumbled. "Put a hole right through the wall."

The sergeant hurried on. "We used a simple setup, leaking halon gas to explain his condition. I'd anticipated that he'd attempt to plug the pipe, but he decided to kill the gas at the valve. The set wasn't that complex. We'll correct that mistake on the next attempt."

The colonel looked between the two of them. "How many times can this technique be repeated before he's aware?"

The sergeant gave that some thought. "Many times." His voice, when he finally did speak, was confident. "The more he tells me in interrogation, the more realistic we can make the scenarios."

"And what does he tell you?"

Hakan removed his little black book from his pocket, flipping to a specific page. "His partner, the special forces agent Arda shot, is named Jack. Apparently Jack's a very funny guy. He appears most frequently when the American reaches a certain level of discomfort or fear, and he's a calming presence. He represents protection and support. The American nearly always smiles, sometimes he even laughs."

Laughing during interrogation. Must be a hell of a funny guy.

"And you're having the lieutenant stand in for this Jack?" The colonel's voice was mild.

There was a brief pause. "I'm hilarious," Kenan growled, and Cenk coughed politely.

"Er, he's the right height and build," the sergeant offered, and the colonel gestured for him to continue.

"The other presence is someone named Bozer. Bozer appears most frequently at night, when we don't permit the American to sleep. He seems to be a friend, and not affiliated with the military or agency. He's used to make the American feel less alone. He's appeared less frequently now that the second lieutenant has made a connection."

All eyes shifted to him, and Cenk shrugged. "If you're asking if I can turn him, the answer is no. Not in the near future, anyway. He's only just started to trust me. I could let him try to social engineer me, if you want."

"He wouldn't believe it," Hakan disagreed. "His defenses are primarily analysis. He's still aware the hallucinations he sees during interrogation aren't really there."

"If he knows it's just a hallucination, how long did the scenario fool him?"

Hakan glanced at the major. "For the scenario, we added some other drugs. They were effective for about seven or eight minutes. I think his awareness had more to do with our incomplete representation of Jack than anything else. And, as I said before, we built a pretty generic set. I think he caught the TVs looping footage there at the end. And he also looked at his wrists, like he was aware they were damaged."

Cenk frowned. "I hit him with lidocaine, he shouldn't have felt a thing. We've been pretty hard on his hands. If you want him to be able to use them, we're going to need to treat him."

The colonel was quiet a moment. "Is he aware of the drug therapy?"

The second lieutenant shook his head. "No. Previously he was getting the medication orally, which we can't continue indefinitely. He has enough abrasions and pain that we can hide any gauge needle mark or soreness. We gave him some calories to get him functional through the scenario, but if we do that too frequently he'll catch on."

"And what does he think happened?"

Cenk shrugged. "I hope he thinks it was a nightmare, and he drowned during interrogation. Kenan shot him with a blank and we faked a resuscitation. I could hit him with a memory blocker next time, and he'd think he just passed out."

"I asked the second lieutenant to mislead him about his condition," Hakan explained. "He uses logic, and if he thinks his body is failing, he'll use that information in his calculations. He still strongly wants to survive."

Colonel Aydin shifted in the chair, his face thoughtful. When he looked back up, it was at Kenan. "I had originally thought he would be useful for intercepting American intelligence. It doesn't sound like that's still going to be possible."

The lieutenant inclined his head, once. "I agree, sir."

"So what else of value do you think he knows?"

They watched the lieutenant mull it over. "I think he's dangerously intelligent, and his is a mind that needs to solve problems." Kenan glanced at Hakan, who nodded agreement. "I'd like to give him a problem and see what he does with it." He looked back to the colonel. "We do have that NATO fleet in Marmara to deal with."

Colonel Aydin grunted an assent. "Very well. Use your best judgement. Oh, and don't let this little project distract you from your other duties."

The team formed up and saluted, and the colonel picked up his laptop, effectively ending the briefing.

-M-

This is the last chapter of setup before things really hit the fan. If I can just stick to my outline. We're halfway there, folks!

Thanks again for your comments – they really help a lot. I know many of you are getting impatient for the team to get their boys back, and that will start to happen next chapter. I'll also try not to split up hallucinations and explanations between chapters, since I think I confused a few of you with that last chapter.


	10. Chapter 10

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

The little girl wrinkled up her nose and pointed. "Keci!"

All three of them laughed, and Jack just shook his head. "You kiss your momma with that mouth?"

At some point during his morning nap – which weirdly enough _always_ happened immediately after breakfast – the carnival that typically kept itself outside the tent had come inside. The three rugrats were varying ages, all in clothing that had clearly fallen off the back of the Gucci truck, and they seemed to think that he was a pretty funny dude.

Maybe keci didn't really mean asshole. After all, they'd barely just met him.

The eldest was a boy, roughly fourteen and basically Basha's height and build. His younger brother – and they were definitely related, same cowlick to their coarse black hair – was about nine or ten. The little girl was the baby of their little troupe, no more than seven.

Which of course meant she was the one in charge.

"Keci!" she declared again, stamping her little foot, and this time Tessa joined in the merriment. Jack thought she was just being polite, though. That cow had a _very_ sweet temperament.

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed, letting his head fall back on the bale of straw he was propped up against. "Repetition makes it funnier, and all that."

Little gypsy kids, flocking to good ol' Jack Dalton for comedy advice.

The tent flap crackled explosively as a body barreled through it, and Jack's eyes snapped open in time to see Basha snag the middle kid by his ear. The other two had scattered like roaches, both diving under the tent walls, and the one they left behind howled like he was getting his ear ripped clean off.

Basha looked supremely unimpressed, so Jack took his cue and kept his seat. The sound did make him wince a little, though.

Basha shouted over him, giving him a hard shake, and the kid continued to flail, adding words to the high-pitched wail.

So it wasn't a stereotype, then. They really were all just dramatic as hell.

If he could have clapped, he would have. All he could actually do was rattle his chains like a wet noodle version of the ghost of Jacob Marley, and nothing against Bruce Willis, but the best adaptation of A Christmas Carol hands down was the George C. Scott version, and time needed to be carved out from the Die Hard marathon every year to watch it.

Something he needed to do with Riley, come to think of it-

Jack tried to focus back on the bloody massacre going on in front of him. It was harder to concentrate, and easier to sleep. Ma Goral had upped her drug game. He was gonna be in rehab for a month after this.

If they didn't all die of lead poisoning.

That was a sobering thought, and Jack frowned, making a 'cut it out' gesture. "Enough already, for cryin' out loud, kid."

Heh. He _was_ cryin' out loud. Jack tried to keep his snigger to himself.

He didn't succeed. The urchin turned on him instantly, without Basha even letting go of his ear, and let rip with a blazing tongue-lashing in rapid-fire Turkish. It took him a good thirty syllables to wrap it up, and Jack looked over his head at Basha.

"Kinda reminds me of your mom."

Bashavel said something that was not very polite and released the other boy with a hard shake. His head was heavy, so Jack just laid back and enjoyed the show. He found that if he didn't listen too carefully, Turkish sounded kinda like Hungarian, and once he thought about it in that context it become a quarter supermodel.

Maybe that was because supermodels all had to have their Bohemian phase to go with their Paris phase.

Basha yelled at him for being there. The boy defended himself by throwing his sister under the bus. Basha wasn't having anything to do with it. The boy said she was a monster. That was right around the time said monster came marching right back in – he should have known they wouldn't abandon their brother – and grabbed him by his _other_ ear.

The kids bickered for a while, but then agreeing that they all now knew there was an American – a soldier, wow, apparently that was pretty cool – in the tent, they asked Basha to tell them about him.

Jack let his eyes slide closed. _This oughta be good_.

Basha took this appointment very seriously. He left any words familiar to Jack far behind, except when he fell into English to repeat a few not terribly flattering things, and a few noises Jack was fairly certain he'd never made in his life. He slit his eyes open, giving the kid a warning glare, and found that the little girl was about six inches from his face.

He was too lazy to startle, but he did feel his heart rate jump. _Jesus_ she was quiet.

The little girl flinched back when she saw his eyes, but when he didn't otherwise move, she studied him with a very serious expression. He narrowed his eyes another few degrees and copied her frown, and just when neither of them could squint any further without actually closing their eyes, he winked.

She leaned back, staring at him in surprise – and then produced an enormous yawn and turned away.

Jack watched her go. _Tough crowd._

Her eldest brother had also returned to the tent, this time with a few loops of cording over his shoulder, and he proclaimed that they were much too busy to hang around in such a shitty tent. Jack noticed Basha very carefully didn't take any offense, disdainfully agreeing that everything he had was awful.

The difference in their clothing was marked. The interlopers had brand new jackets, the girl was wearing a cute little Hello Kitty dress and the kicks on the eldest boy were a decent knock-off. Nothing was mended. Bashavel, on the other hand, was cultivating the Oliver Twist look, and considering the rest of his family's wardrobe, Jack figured that was on purpose. Hard to beg on the street when you dressed like you owned it.

But maybe he'd read the situation wrong.

The eldest said something about soup, and indicated the cording on his shoulder, and Jack stared at it absently for a moment. It was thin and white, almost the same gauge as Riley's earbuds that Mac had confiscated that time in, Holland? No, Ireland? when they'd ended up spending the night in that rickety old windmill ruin hiding from the O'Haughans –

And had a pretty decent hasenpfeffer on the hoof.

 _Tavsanlar_ wasn't 'soup'. It was 'rabbit'.

"Hey, kid."

All of them pretended like he hadn't said anything, and Jack sighed.

"You don't wanna catch any tavsanlar, that's fine by me. I ain't the one hungry."

Four head swiveled, none smiling, and Jack gave it right back to them.

"You said it wrong," Basha finally growled, then shook his head in classic teenage disappointment. "Idiot."

" . . yeah, a big salak, you said that before." He gestured at the cording. "Seriously, kid, c'mere."

The eldest kid touched his chest. Jack nodded.

The boy came forward, on just as creepily light feet as his younger sister had, and Basha put his arm out halfheartedly to stop him. It was his right arm; as soon as it was extended enough that the tremor was obvious, he pulled it back.

But he still issued the warning. _Stop. He's dangerous._

Jack was getting a little tired of that allegation. He was pretty sure Goral knew he knew it was bupkis, but the guy had him dead to rights. Screaming for help in a gypsy camp would get him attention, but it wouldn't be the kind he'd enjoy.

He'd taken to wincing more and moving less, which had made Basha's mother change up the stink of her medicine – and give him an earful for her trouble – but he was pretty sure he'd bought himself a little time. They wouldn't get as good a price for him if he couldn't walk, after all. The more docile he was, the longer they'd let him recover.

The mere thought of trying to take on even one decent merc in this condition was not something he was looking forward to.

But one little gypsy kid, that he could handle.

"I'm not gonna hurt ya. I wanna show you somethin'."

The elder boy had a decision to make – yield to Basha, or show off in front of his siblings? Not much of a decision. He marched up confidently, staring down his nose at Jack.

From what he clearly thought was a safe distance.

Jack stared at him a moment, then cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously, kid?" The gypsy said something in Roma, which he'd decided was the devil's tongue for all the sense he could make out of it, and Jack rolled his eyes to Basha.

The boy frowned at him. "What do you want to show him?"

He gestured to the cord with his left hand, pulling the chain out of the straw, just a little. "Little trick I picked up in Ireland."

The boy scooped the cording off his shoulder, tossing it unceremoniously onto Jack's chest, and he sighed at the rudeness _– maybe a little dramatic, but when in Rome, or at least, with Roma – heh -_ and got to work.

For all that Mac had the monopoly on genius in their little partnership, most of the stuff he did made sense once he'd finally finished assembling it and you could tell what the hell it was supposed to be. This little trick was even simpler than that. The cord was just soft, woven cotton, with even less grab to it than Riley's rubber-coated headphones, and the knots came back to him quickly.

Jack tied a finger's width of straw into the large loop, just past the original knot, and then he pointed at the younger brother and made a 'come hither' motion. After a moment, he did so.

"Okay. You." He pointed to the elder boy, and then he tossed the larger loop out onto the straw past his feet. "Stand there."

Basha translated, and the elder boy strutted back to the loop, eyeing it disdainfully before putting his foot right in the middle.

Jack gestured to the little boy. "C'mere, champ. Up by me."

That didn't need translation, just coaxing, but eventually the little boy approached his right shoulder warily. Jack gestured for him to come down, kneeling right beside him, and he handed the little boy the other end of the cord. He drew up the slack until there was just a light tension between them and the main loop.

"Okay, wait," he instructed, holding up a finger just in case. "He's a rabbit, right? Uh, a tavsanlar. Real fast, real nervous. Right?"

Jack glanced up at Basha, who grudgingly translated. The oldest boy demonstrated how quickly he could remove his foot from the loop, he would barely have to move it an inch vertically and the cord would slide right under his sneaker.

The little girl clapped in delight, and beside him, the middle child shifted, giving him a look that clearly said 'if you're making fun of me I'm going to punch you in the nose. '

"Nobody's getting punched in the nose," Jack continued. "Okay, when you have your cute little tavsanlar in your loop, you just want to twitch the cord. Little flick of the wrist, like this." "Jack demonstrated, poorly, then frowned and pulled a little more slack in his chain and tried again.

"Okay?" He met the kid's eye. "Okay, when you're ready. And you, big man, you try to get out of it, alright?"

Despite himself, Basha looked as curious as they did, and there was a tense standoff, and a fair amount of feigning and giggling, and then the little boy twitched the cord.

For all that he barely moved his end of the cord, the larger loop closed at least twice the distance, and the eldest boy wasn't fast enough to get his big fancy-ass sneaker free of the loop before it snared him. The smaller boy crowed in delight, and his elder brother glared and demanded a try. Jack motioned him over and showed him how to loosen the modified constrictor knot, then pulled it tight again.

The eldest boy got the message, kneeling and demonstrating – with a little assistance from Jack - that he could loosen it without untying it, and he ordered his little brother into position. His mini broheim had much smaller feet, and was plenty quick, but he too was unable to escape.

Basha declined to participate, and after one or two more attempts – and failures – of the humans to evade the snare, the eldest boy grudging admitted that the American soldier was not a total idiot. Basha assured him that the soldier had just gotten lucky, and truly was the worst possible idiot.

Jack gave a halfhearted gesture he was pretty sure they all recognized, then yawned so widely his jaw cracked. "Get off my lawn. Or out of my shitty tent. Whatever."

There was some kind of negotiation that went on, then, that Jack wasn't able to make much sense of. Eventually the eldest boy handed Basha something, which was clearly not what he wanted, but he wanted it enough to not give it back, so apparently it was a deal. The four Roma then turned and curtsied to him, which Jack expected was some kind of insult, and they traipsed out of the tent totally innocently, as if nothing at all interesting had happened.

Jack gave them a ten second head start – just in case – and then he used his left hand to gently brush the straw away from the slim black device he'd lifted right out of the kid's pocket.

As long as whoever the kid had nicked it from hadn't noticed yet, the smartphone might actually still have service.

Gypsies – 2. Jack Dalton – 1.

It was locked, but it was an iPhone, and Jack found himself grinning fondly. "Riley, you beautiful girl, you're gonna be so proud of me." He tapped the Emergency Call feature and got the dialer. It would only let him call an emergency number, and he didn't know what country he was in, but it was pretty much 112 anywhere in Europe.

Sure enough, it dialed. He immediately clicked the button on the top of the iPhone, just like she'd taught him, and the lock screen disappeared, showing him the phone's contacts and the red Hang Up button. He hung up on emergency services, and dialed the first number that came to mind.

-M-

Riley was two-thirds of the way through a massive forkful of spaghetti when her back pocket buzzed.

She shoved the rest of the pasta into her face, setting down her fork and ignoring some comment Bozer made about crimes against food, and fished the phone out of her denim shorts.

"If that's Matty, tell her I said no electronics at the dinner table."

She didn't recognize the name, and it was calling from a 359 country code. Riley frowned, swallowed, and silenced the ringer, waiting for her phone to resolve the call further.

It didn't. Boyan Lyubomir apparently wanted to speak with her.

"Riley?"

She looked up at Cage and shrugged. "No idea. Some dude in Bulgaria. He called me, not Maria."

The agents all exchanged a quick glance. Riley's alias did indeed have a phone – everyone in Greece did – but this wasn't a forward from her alias. Whoever it was had called her personal line.

"You mean you been here less than two weeks and the telemarketers have already found you?"

They all ignored Bozer, and Cage started to shake her head. "Don't-"

Riley accepted the call, putting it on speaker and confident that her software mods would give them at least thirty seconds of untraceability. After almost two weeks of nothing, if some dude in Bulgaria had something to say to her, she'd hear him out.

But there was no sound on the other end of the line.

Riley glanced at Cage, who was frowning but silent, so she cleared her throat. "Yeah. What."

There was a sigh on the other end of the line that broke out into a quiet chuckle. "Yeah what yourself. Is that any way to answer your damn phone?"

Riley didn't move, or look at anyone else. She just stared at the phone.

That sounded exactly like Jack. Exactly.

". . . it's me, Riles." Much more sober.

It took her a second to find her voice, and when she did, it shook. ". . . is this a joke? Do you think you're fucking funny?"

Another low chuckle. "I'm hilarious. But I'm a little high at the mo', so take that for what it's worth." He grunted, and there was some hissing on the line. "Sorry to call ya out of the blue, and I'll make it up to you later, I swear I will, but I'm not gonna have this phone for long. Can you please do whatever it is you do and get a location on my happy ass?"

She was already halfway down the hallway.

"Jack? Jack, where the hell are you?!"

Another sigh. "Didn't I just ask _you_ that?"

She raced up the stairs and around the corner, flinging the phone onto the chair beside her keyboard. She had her tracer program up before Bozer cleared the doorframe. "Are - are you okay? What happened-"

"Tell you all about it when I see ya." This time his chuckle was a little different from the others, a little less even. "Long story." More hissing. "Everybody okay? Is Mac there?"

Her tracing software agreed the call had originated in Bulgaria, and it started closing in on cell towers in the southern part of the country-

Mac.

He'd asked about Mac.

Riley glanced at Bozer, wild-eyed, and he nodded emphatically. _Yes!_

"Yeah, yeah, we're all fine," she said quickly, finally getting a connection to the phone. It was an iPhone, and she ran a script to turn on GPS. "Jack, are you safe? What can you see?"

"Not much." There was a crumpling noise in the background, and then a woman started shrieking. "An angry gypsy," he corrected himself loudly, trying to be heard over the woman. "Riles, do _not_ come here. You send a tac team, you hear me? Armed for bear. They'll be at the embassy –"

There was a brief scuffle, the sound of metal on metal, and then Jack gave a shout of pain. More hissing.

"Jack!"

The line disconnected.

Riley snatched up her phone and hit redial. The room was full of agents, everyone tense and silent as the phone rang.

No one picked up.

The map zoomed in on Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Then it refined itself to a neighborhood, Stolipinovo. A dot appeared with GPS coordinates, and blinked at them steadily.

The call disconnected.

The GPS beacon remained. It put him almost 200 miles from Cilingoz Tabiat Park.

Cage studied the map a long moment. "Two teams. You heard him. We're rolling in ten."

Riley leapt to her feet and Cage reacted instantly, pushing her firmly back into the chair. "You heard him," she repeated. "I need you here." Samantha glanced back up at the room. "Bozer too. McMurtrie, you stay on overwatch."

"But-"

Cage's attention returned to her, and the hand on her shoulder tightened warningly. "I need you here." The dark locks made Cage look a little more severe, a little less friendly. Her tone brooked no argument.

And that was just too damn bad. Riley opened her mouth again, then winced as the pressure crossed the line into pain. "Hey-"

"Riley, look at me." The agent's hazel eyes were colder than Riley had ever seen them. "This is a trap. You heard the chain, same as the rest of us. We need coms, and we need eyes. _Now_. You're either in or you're out."

Riley stared up at her as the words filtered in. Eyes. She meant satellite. If whoever had him moved Jack now, that iPhone beacon would become meaningless.

She nodded, leaning back a little to show that she understood, and the hand on her shoulder let her go, and gave her a squeeze that was only fractionally more gentle.

"Watch him, Riley. Watch him and do _not_ lose him."

-M-

Major Oguzhan ignored the vibration for a moment, remaining silent as the party and their prisoner passed. The American didn't seem to be able to walk under his own power, but the black hood made it difficult to tell if he was conscious. Zhan didn't take the chance, waiting until they went around the corner before he silently retrieved his phone.

He didn't bother to check the caller ID. "Go."

"The other American's resurfaced."

Zhan glanced out the window closest to him, looking over the courtyard without seeing it. "My contacts confirmed. Stolipinovo."

"Probable. The US embassy in Sophia just got a call. Missing American photographer. Asking 500K."

Fairly reasonable, for the Roma. "They must really hate him."

"The US State Department will be made aware soon, if it hasn't happened already. I'll contact you again when I have a location for the exchange."

Which would be nominally better than tearing apart the largest gypsy slum in Bulgaria looking for him. It would also make it more convenient to finally discover who it was that searched so hard for him. "Anything else?"

"Nothing on MacGyver. After he was discharged from the Army, his records are redacted. I have yet to find a clean copy."

Presuming the same employer for both agents, that question would be answered soon enough. "And on the recruitment?"

"No issues at this time."

"The colonel will be pleased to hear it."

The call disconnected, and Zhan tucked the phone back into his thigh pocket, and pushed off the wall, heading in the general direction of the American and his entourage.

He wasn't terribly hard to find. Zhan stepped aside to allow the two recruits to pass, no longer carrying a body but instead a large banquet table, and the door of the nearest guest bedroom was wide open. The room, like every other room on the third floor, had been stripped of anything useful weeks ago, and there was plenty of space.

The American was sprawled in a large wooden armchair, secured loosely around the chest and arms. He was quite unconscious, his head thrown back, and the second lieutenant had just finished threading a thin tube down the American's throat. He stuffed a rag in the man's mouth, apparently to prevent him from biting down on the tube, and then he reached into the large duffel beside him, expertly assembling a telescoping pole.

A bag of liquid nutritional supplement was hooked onto the pole, and that was then attached to the tube going down the prisoner's throat.

Zhan shook his head quietly. "This is all a great deal of trouble."

Cenk jumped, clearly not having heard him enter, then turned and gave him a mild look. "I'll remember that for when _you_ need treatment in the field."

The major gestured. "We are not in the field. And you did not do it right."

Cenk chuckled. "Thanks, doc." He indicated the feeding tube. "You mean this?"

Since it was the only thing he'd done to the American, there was no point in responding, and the second lieutenant tried to adopt a serious look.

"You only run it through the nose to prevent people from chewing on it when they talk. I run it through his nose, he might notice it's sore. Straight down his throat, it blends in with everything else."

Yes. That was exactly his point. "A great deal of trouble."

"It's not so bad," a voice observed, directly in his ear, and Zhan had a knife drawn before he recognized the voice.

Luckily for the sergeant, he had very good reflexes, and he had retreated just out of range.

Hakan held up his hands in mock surrender, and behind them, the second lieutenant snickered.

Zhan gave the newest member of the team a dark look. "That was unwise."

The sergeant inclined his head. "My apologies, major."

The major fingered the knife, as if considering whether the apology was sufficient, but the sergeant wasn't cowed.

Hhn. Not bad.

Zhan sheathed the blade. "Is this what you did for Special Operations?"

Sergeant Hakan was the only member of the team the colonel had recruited from the Gendarmerie. He wasn't actually sure what they did, but he knew all of it was classified.

Hakan took that as permission to fully enter the room. "Yes and no. Interrogations, yes, but over the course of months." He indicated the American. "Accomplishing it in weeks is more challenging."

"And this American is worth that?"

The sergeant exchanged a look with the second lieutenant. "I have no idea," he finally confessed. "I don't know what he knows yet. It was supposed to be a quick break and build, but he's not a typical subject. Normally we wouldn't artificially accelerate this process with drugs, but the lieutenant has experience with it, so . . . he's an experiment."

Zhan digested that. "So this farce –" and he pointed to the hallway, where the recruits were now hauling chairs – "is part of the technique?"

"That farce?" The sergeant also pointed. "No, that farce is different, because it's specific. And yes, it's standard for the technique. The first one was honestly because . . well, Kenan asked me to come up with something for the recruits to do."

Cenk looked up from where he was examining the American's wrists. ". . . seriously?"

Hakan nodded. "It only took about an hour to set up. Liris had gotten the Army file back to us and I knew we were having that supply issue in Kesan. One of the missions in his file was a pen test of a base. I figured he might know of vulnerabilities in base security that had shaken out of the test. Things like gaps in camera placement, maybe substandard fencing. I had no idea he would know manufacturer access codes off the top of his head."

Zhan thought that through. "We burned a set of UN credentials on your hunch that the access codes he gave you were valid?"

Kenan had failed to mention that in the mission briefing.

The sergeant stared at him. ". . . yes. When you put it that way. I mean, Liris confirmed a Raytheon system had been installed at Camp Bondsteel within the past year, which improved the odds of the code still being valid, but . . . yes."

Zhan reconsidered slitting his throat. "How frequently does this technique result in faulty intelligence?"

"Not often, when done correctly." Hakan had turned back to the American, studying him. "Accelerating the process certainly means the subject is in better physical and mental health than one that has undergone the full treatment."

Cenk snorted, still applying a topical to the American's wrists. "I bet."

"He was still cognizant of details he shouldn't have been. The wound he saw on Kenan – that was from his memory of the other agent. He knew his wrists were injured. Typically knowledge of the present is completely inaccessible when the technique is properly applied."

And that was not reassuring. Zhan was still floored Kenan had ordered the mission on such risky intel. Then again, they had needed to take the last batch of recruits on a real mission, and test the new pilot, so even if the access codes hadn't worked, the mission still would have been useful from a training perspective.

He was going to have to have a conversation with their lieutenant.

Speaking of which –

"Well, that farce," and he thumbed over his shoulder, "will have to wait. We've located the other American."

The second lieutenant straightened, tossing the used cotton swab into a refuse bag. "The one Arda shot?"

"The same. I believe we have an opportunity to discover who it is that seeks these agents so desperately."

"Great." The sergeant glared halfheartedly at the unconscious agent. "Maybe we can find a more cooperative one."

Cenk went back to his duffel. "Let me finish up here, I'll be down in twenty."

That the American had only been valuable accidentally irritated the major in a way he couldn't quite pin down. The care they were forced to administer only annoyed him further. Every ounce of medicine they wasted on this American agent was one less ounce for their own men. "How long could you keep him alive?"

The second lieutenant's expression didn't change much as he selected a couple vials. "Indefinitely. Unless you shoot him again. Then not very long."

Zhan continued to glare at the agent. "This is a lot of trouble. I am not sure he is worth it."

Hakan turned for the door. "Well, if the lieutenant is right, and he can come up with a way to let us track that NATO fleet in real time, he'll be worth more than his current weight in gold."

-M-

**20 HOURS LATER**

Jack forgot to keep his voice down. "He _WHAT_?!"

"Ayi!" the boy shouted back, throwing both his hands in the air. "You are better asleep! Of course he went! The reward is large! Idiot soldier, does medicine fall from sky for free?!"

Oh, he was getting sick of this bullshit. "Your father fucking ransomed me to the State Department and we both know it, so drop this 'reward' crap. Bashavel, the guys who did this to me –" and he jammed his forefinger in the direction of his gut – "are dangerous people! Do you understand?!"

The boy kicked a pile of straw at him. "Idiot! All soldiers are dangerous! Do you know what Roma are?!"

Jack dropped his gaze to the towels over his legs, taking a couple deep breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Going all Bruce Banner here was not going to help.

Nor was his swimming head. He could barely see straight, let alone think. Once they'd gotten the phone away from him, he could barely remember a thing until about ten minutes ago. And Goral was already long gone. If Basha hadn't been so rough trying to put his boots back on his feet he wouldn't have woken up at all.

God they were in trouble.

_Riles, honey, you better get that backup here in a hurry._

"Okay." He held up his hands placatingly. "How long ago did he agree to the meet. Was it like hours, or like, twenty minutes ago?"

"I am Roma! Do you see watch, idiot goat?!"

"Enough with the goat! I don't even get it!" He waved his arms for silence. "Was the exchange set up right when your dad left, or before?"

Basha shook his head with an enormous sigh. "Idiot, idiot, idiot," he chanted angrily. "We are Roma! We will not be where soldiers think. We will not be where police think. Reward – _reward_ -" he repeated with heavy enunciation even as Jack ground his teeth, "will be given but you will not! You will be safe on park bench! We will give this place after!"

Public place, a park in a major city, sniper angles galore. Jack leaned as far right as he could, scrubbing his face furiously with his hand.

It didn't help.

"Goral's gonna get himself killed," he muttered. "Basha, you gotta call him off."

"My father is fine!" the boy shouted, and then he swayed. This time, he stumbled over to a bale of straw before he fell, and Jack watched helplessly as the kid struggled with his body.

This wasn't going to work.

When Basha seemed to have recovered a little, Jack tried, one more time. "You remember when your father found me? What I looked like?"

"Da, salak!" _Yes, idiot!_

That was kind of disturbing. He wouldn't want a thirteen year old to see someone in his condition. Jack shook the stray thought out of his head.

"The guys that your dad's about to meet shot me four times. Four." He shook four fingers at Basha, just in case. "Then they dumped gasoline on me and threw a match."

Basha straightened, the picture of skepticism. "You had no burns!"

"Yeah, because I got up and ran, you stupid kid. I went ten miles in that condition." Maybe three. Running had not been involved. " _Ten miles_ to that ranger station where your dad found me. Lookin' like this."

Despite his best intentions, Basha appeared a little impressed.

"That's how much of a badass _I_ am. How much more badass do you think those guys are, if they were able to do this to me?"

He was right; the kid hadn't thought about it that way. Basha prepared a breath, undoubtedly to tell him how impossibly stupid he was, but second after second ticked by and he still hadn't found the words.

"Basha, you gotta call your dad. Get him back here. We'll work the money out. It's not worth his life!"

_Or yours._

The boy shook his head, but the bravado had started to drain from his face. "I can't. He has no phone."

Son of a bitch. "What happened to the one your mom took off me?"

After she kicked him right in the gut for it.

A little of the boy's anger resurfaced. "It was not ours!"

"It wasn't theirs either! They stole it from someone else! How does that even work?!"

The crunch of tires – moving rapidly – got his attention, and Jack was not surprised to see that Basha responded in kind, both of them pausing to listen.

In all the time he'd been here, he'd not heard vehicle tires like that. SUV, and it had to be flying. It wasn't far, and it was getting closer by the second.

"Get out. Basha, get your mom and get out!"

He pointed to the tent flap, as best he could with his reduced range of motion, but it was unnecessary – the kid was out of the tent like a shot.

He heard several shouts of alarm going up, he imagined because a big black SUV in a gypsy slum was probably never a good sign for any of them, and Jack glanced around the tent. He could drag a couple straw bales over, but it wouldn't take them any time to figure out the pile of straw next to the cow looked awfully strange.

Frankly, the quicker they found him, the better for Basha and the Bitch. Maybe him and the colonel could have a nice chat and catch up, buy the kid some time.

If they were here in the slum, they either had Goral already, or they'd deployed two teams.

 _God dammit._ He thought he'd had more time.

A new thought crossed his mind. That _could_ be a Phoenix tac team. It had apparently been a whole fucking day, so they'd had plenty of time to hop a fourteen hour flight to Turkey – or wherever.

_When is your luck ever that good, Jack? When? It's fucking Turkey. We might as well be in Cairo. Egypt's like, right there._

Jack closed his eyes and grimaced as the tires ground to a halt, far too close for comfort.

"Sorry, Mac, I know better than to invoke the Day-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and if it's you, buddy, I'll take it all back."

Feet hit the ground, moving fast. He wasn't sure if there were three or four, his head wasn't clear enough for that, but one of them swept around the back of the tent, so scuttling out that way wasn't an option. He heard what sounded like a nearby tent entered – the one Basha and his parents lived in – but no screams, no gunfire.

Good. At least they'd run.

Jack winced a little, dragging himself up as best he could against his bales of straw. Might as well face this not looking too pathetic. If it was Mac, after all, that'd just be embarrassing.

And if it was the colonel, well, fuck him.

The tent flap crackled, and a slim brunette entered, weapon ready. She sighted on him instantly – he was kind of obvious – but she didn't fire. Instead, she cleared the rest of the tent, and approached.

A second man came in behind her, and Jack's jaw dropped. Then he started to laugh.

"Wha-what the hell'd you do to your hair?!"

Samantha Cage holstered her firearm, crouching down beside him and all he could do was laugh. It hurt like hell, and she figured that out pretty quick, but he just couldn't stop.

Behind her, Micah Tunstall – another one of theirs – gave him a nod, and Jack gave him the closest thing to a salute he could manage. As soon as he raised his hand, Cage finally figured out why he was just sitting there laughing his ass off.

She pulled something out of her back pocket and by that time his eyes had teared up too much to see, his gut hurt too much to care, and he couldn't breathe. He'd have just shot the manacles off, but maybe they didn't want to upset the cow.

Tessa. He was going to miss that cow dog.

Whatever Cage did, it didn't take long. "Jack. Jack, can you stand?"

Shit no. He hadn't even tried in like two weeks.

Someone wormed their way under his arm – so this standing thing was going to happen one way or another – and Jack tried, honestly, to do his part. Getting up was as bad as he'd thought it'd be, but once he was actually standing, it was bearable. There was a deafening buzz in his ears but he didn't pass out. His left leg was shaky but it held, and she was on that side like she'd known that –

Oh. Right.

Jack adjusted his weight so she wasn't pulling so hard on his abdomen, and he guarded it with his right arm, but it was a hell of a lot better than it had been, and then they stumbled out into the sunlight.

The blinding halos had Jack closing his eyes before they made it to the vehicle, but he was able to figure out what went where. Their voices started to sink back in.

"-alton, I need you to look at me-"

He tried, forcing his eyes wide, and Micah's face swam into view. One of the few other ex-special forces operators at Phoenix, they coordinated a lot of joint operations but rarely ended up on the same tac team. Still, he was glad as hell to see the guy. Micah gave him a broad grin, his white teeth flashing.

"Jesus, Dalton, you are high as a kite."

Jack grinned. "Yeah?"

"I could drive an Abrams through those pupils, man. How's your pain?"

He thought about it. "Three. It's fine." Micah was checking on his gut anyway, and Jack allowed it, letting some of the euphoria momentarily clear. "Look, there's a gypsy, he's about to walk into-"

"We got him, Jack. Saito and Tunne picked him up before he hit the meet."

Jack shook his head. "Goral, that's his name –"

"The wiry guy in the aviator's hat?"

Jack nodded, a little nonplussed. "Yeah. That's the guy."

"He's fine. Saito's waiting to see who else shows."

Goral was fine. He was fine.

Jack took a deep breath, and finally let himself relax back against the seat. Saito was ex Japanese SWAT. He was no slouch. They knew what they were dealing with.

"Whoa, big guy –"

Jack waved Micah off, or at least he thought he did. He didn't bother to open his eyes. "I'm good. Just . . . Basha. There's a kid, and his mom-"

"You need us to pick them up?"

No. Yes. "The kid needs medical."

Micah took a step back, removing himself from Jack's personal space. "You copy?"

Jack decided Micah wasn't talking to him. Someone else got in the SUV, he felt the vehicle shift, and then someone had picked up his right wrist, taking his pulse. He rolled his head to the right, also recognizing the guy sitting next to him. Gabe Pinion. Ex spec ops, USAF.

Well. If an Air Force flyboy could be considered spec ops. "Hey."

The guy gave him a nod, eyes on his watch. "Hey Jack. Long time no see."

Yeah. That was a fucking understatement. It felt like it'd been a year.

It mighta been, actually. Last year's Christmas party?

Riles had really outdone herself. Or maybe Matty. That was a lot of fucking firepower, just like he'd told her. But there was clearly a face missing.

"Where's Mac?"

Gabriel scribbled something down on an EMT pad. "How's your pain, Jack?"

. . . not so high that he couldn't tell a fucking evasion when he heard one. "Gabe. Where's Mac?"

"Mac's not here, Jack. It's just us."

He stared at the agent for a long moment, and Gabe stared back. Then he whistled.

"That's impressive. You know what they gave you?"

"You found him, though, right? Mac?" They must have, Riley had said-

Gabriel stared at him with those baby blues, so much like his partner's, and then he slowly shook his head. "No sir. He's MIA. We think he's still with Colonel Aydin."

Jack thought about that for a little while, too tired to be irritated as his physical continued.

The colonel still had Mac.

-M-

"Got an ETA yet?"

Riley didn't even look up, she just accepted the plate and set it on the opposite arm of the overstuffed chair, and Bozer took his usual seat, wiping his hand across his apron. He had eyes only for the monitors.

"Not yet." Cage had been off their frequency for a while now, and there wasn't much point in keeping satellite surveillance on the villa, since there was so much traffic in the area. It was well after dark, so they'd be relying on the same heat map technology they were using for the other site, and it wasn't like their SUVs looked any different than anyone else's in that regard.

So the entire wall of monitors was dedicated to their other site.

"What did I miss?"

Riley grabbed a carrot stick off the plate and pointed. "Those guys."

There were two people-shaped orange and blue dots, near a squarish vehicle that was cooling as she watched. The dots weren't moving much, apparently content to observe, and further towards the center of the screen, a small canning factory showed minimal activity. It looked like it was shutting down for the night, but in truth it hadn't really been producing much for the past week.

That was when Phoenix had bought it, and set it up as their beta site.

She hadn't been in on most of those meetings, she just knew it existed, how to find her way to it, and that it was either a fall back point, or an ambush point. Whichever was needed. Having been living a messed up military reboot of MTV's _The Real World_ with six different versions of Jack for the past couple weeks, she was beginning to appreciate that even when she and her mom thought he sold bathroom tile, a lot of Jack's idiosyncrasies were really just a symptom of how screwed up career spec ops folks were.

She had two go bags. One was heavier than the other. She had a list of criteria that she had to justify in order to take the heavier of the two.

Despite the fact that nine people lived in the house, there was no evidence of this. Anywhere. No one left toiletries in the bathroom except the Lady King, on pain of being woken at 4 in the morning by a very unhappy agent. Bozer was required to run and empty the dishwasher after every meal so no one would be able to accurately count the dishes being used. Trash had been separated into different brands and types of trash bags and was frequently smuggled out when the agents, in their various aliases, went out their 'daily' routines.

Jack had never taken those things to that extreme, when he'd lived with them, but there had been the same tendency to require her to justify wearing heels if she was going out with friends, Jack had never once had an issue with the way Diane could take over a bathroom - and could she ever - and now that she looked back on it, the number of things Jack had brought into the house that were actually his own had all fit in a single duffel.

At the time, she'd figured that had been her cue that he was always planning to just ditch them one day.

But now she really appreciated that it was simply the way he'd been trained to think. And despite all the different backgrounds of the agents, they all basically solved problems the same way.

So the canning factory had been purchased last week, once they realized the magnitude of Colonel Aydin's recruitment efforts and just how deep General Doukas' pockets could be. Just in case. Like Jack used to insist Diane kept a wooden baseball bat in the car. Just in case. And now that cannery was in ambush mode, and they were all sitting around waiting to see what the two guys who had tailed Cage's team were going to do.

"Just those guys?"

Riley nodded. "Saito and Tunne didn't get there til after you went downstairs to make dinner." Which had only been about forty minutes ago. Since then, she'd watched them - plus the four agents Phoenix had sent when she'd gotten that phone call yesterday - set their traps and wait.

"So it's still their move."

Riley gave him a look and chomped on the carrot. "This isn't a round of Scrabble, Boze."

He shrugged. "There's a reason Sun Tzu called it the 'art' of war. And why most great military leaders play chess."

If that were true, their team had obviously missed a couple of their turns. Once the State Department had finally gotten around to telling Matty they'd gotten a lead on Ethan Darby, Jack's alias, it had been hours after Jack's call. By then Director Webber had already dispatched the team that was supposed to back them up. They assumed there was some kind of leak at the State Department, so that should have been around the time Colonel Aydin got wind.

So Matty had sent them more agents, which had taken around fifteen hours, and presumably the colonel had put his men into play, who were way the hell closer than fifteen hours. The State Department hadn't known exactly where the exchange was going to happen until the hour before it was supposed to go down, which meant the colonel shouldn't have either.

And the only ones who should have known precisely where Jack was, was Phoenix.

But somehow the colonel's men had known exactly where Jack was. No one, not even Riley with her bird's eye view, had seen the guy at the time; she'd had to go back to the footage after Cage asked and confirm it.

The moment Cage had actually come out of the tent with Jack, Micah had crossed to her side of the car, and a gypsy darted out from a corrugated tin 'house,' placed the tracker in the wheel well, and disappeared right back under the tin.

Micah was back in position in less than ten seconds. That was the one and only time their agents had had one side of the vehicle out of direct line of sight.

And despite crawling the footage for hours, she never saw that gypsy emerge. He'd managed to keep under tents, houses, and trees until he was able to change his costume. She never found a suspicious vehicle. No idea how he got there or when he got there.

Nor had she seen Saito's SUV tagged. In his case, analysts at the Phoenix had digitally removed the sidewalk tree that had been partially blocking their view, and one of the many passing pedestrians had placed the tracker with the three agents actually sitting in their vehicle. They'd already picked up the gypsy that had tried to sell Jack back to them, and she assumed the colonel's guy had timed his passing by for when he could see the gypsy was distracting them.

That the colonel's men could have figured out they'd have agents at the meet point, that was expected. That was why Cage had split up the teams, and had them meet at a rendezvous site outside of the city. Finding the tracker on Saito's car had been believable.

Finding the one on Cage's SUV, that had been dumb luck.

She could have led the colonel right back to the villa.

Instead, they'd split the trackers to the front and back of Saito's SUV, and the rest was history. The colonel's men had tailed the trackers to the beta site, Cage was apparently coming home by way of China for all the time it was taking her, and Riley was getting more and more impatient.

Cage and her team were on their own frequency, so they could keep her appraised of what was going on at beta site. Phoenix was handling that op from Los Angeles. She and Bozer were literally just spectators.

Riley eyeballed her carrot remnant and dropped it back on the plate. Bozer had done a good job of providing crunchy, salty, and bite-sized, which were her go-tos.

Her stomach was still too knotted up to eat.

"So what's gonna happen when they do decide to move in?"

Riley looked back up at the wall of monitors. "Uh, pretty sure we picked the cannery because there's a network of big-ass drains that go out to tanks, like if one of the vats ever failed, the whole place wouldn't be flooded. I think the plan's to let them come in and then to blow it."

Because the beta site had to be both a fall back point and an ambush site. Either way, the drains gave the Phoenix agents a way to flee without being seen. Giant soup drains weren't exactly her idea of awesome, but she wasn't there, so she didn't need to worry about it.

. . . though they might need to worry about exactly how deep they were buried, considering they were up against a literal army.

Nah. They were in Greece. There was no way the colonel could get his buddy Count Dooku to call in an airstrike.

Right?

"Hey, Troy?"

Riley and Bozer waited a beat, and then a smooth voice spoke into their ears. "Not your op. Stop worrying."

She really liked Troy McMurtrie. He sounded like one of the guys that did audiobooks, and he had the same sense of humor as Bozer. It was easy to understand why Cage had picked him as the agent to keep an eye on Boze. And, by extension, her.

"Besides, Agent Davis, I believe you're expecting a package at the rear entrance?"

Riley and Bozer exchanged a look, and the two made a mad dash for the door.

By the time they made it into the kitchen, the back door had just been pulled open, and Agent Pinion walked in, glancing around. When he saw them, he grimaced.

"He smells," the agent stage whispered. "You should probably let him get a shower first."

Behind him, a familiar voice floated into the kitchen. "-ell did you get digs like this? Matty never put any of us up in a damn castle-"

Riley wondered, for one ridiculous moment, if she looked presentable.

Then Gabe stepped aside, and Jack Dalton limped into the kitchen.

He looked like beat-up, gypsy Rick Grimes, except the crazy scruffy beard wasn't as long or as neat. His right arm was wrapped tight around his stomach, but she didn't see any blood, and whatever he was bitching about died in his throat.

Riley had been thinking about what she was going to say to him for two weeks. How worried and angry he had made her feel. How much of a pain in her ass he had made it to track him down. How inconsiderate he had been, this whole time, being alive and well and somehow not being able to give them one single clue.

She didn't say any of that. She just walked straight into his arms.

Once he turned on the waterworks, she was doomed, but luckily for her he could still talk and cry at the same time.

"Oh, baby girl . . . I am so sorry . . ."

Gabe was right. He smelled like a barn.

Riley didn't care. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hugged him tighter and tighter until she was sure, damn sure, that he was real.

" . . . I was so afraid I'd never see you again . . ."

She squeezed her eyes shut. _Reading my mind, old man_.

If he was hurting, he didn't show it. He was just as solid and strong as he always was, and he stroked her hair, just like he always did. He kept apologizing, over and over, and she kept not being able to say a damn thing.

"Are you okay? You good?"

She just nodded into his neck, and held him tight.

They stayed like that long enough that by the time she finally decided she really did probably need to let him go, they were alone in the kitchen. His crying face wasn't any better than hers, but he was grinning that same old Jack Dalton grin, although it was a little hard to see through the scruff.

She sniffled, which was a little embarrassing, and then said the first thing that popped into her mind.

"You smell, dude."

He laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

She bit her lip and looked him up and down. "Are you . . . okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll be fine. Might take a couple days, but I'll be up for a few games before you know it."

Riley stared at him for a second, not quite sure what he meant, and he held up an imaginary ball. "Pizza and skee-ball, of course."

She burst out laughing – sort of – and he put his left arm around her shoulders. "How's about you help ol' Jack here to the shower. When I get out, I wanna see a big ol' steak, and everything we've got on Mac. Sound good?"

She nodded, putting her arm around him – carefully this time – and guiding him through the kitchen.

". . . yeah. That sounds good."

-M-

Major Oguzhan settled himself comfortably into the lounge chair, adjusting it a few inches to his right to give him an unobstructed view through the ornate spindles of the roof fencing. He put the binoculars to his eyes, adjusting them slightly to get a sharper focus, and then he started a systematic sweep of the villa.

Most of the windows were partially or fully obstructed by curtains. Smart. The villa had a lot of glass, which was useful, but the light was diffuse, making specific shadows difficult to pick out. It had a small courtyard and its own dedicated driveway, a luxury in the closely packed streets of Alexandroupoli, and obviously a rear entrance as well.

Clear view of the streets running in both directions. Nice neighborhood, cameras on the adjacent villas as well. The street was well-lit, and there were three or four spots that would be excellent for perimeter surveillance.

Zhan continued his study, fishing his radio out of his collar and putting it back into his ear.

"Gamma in position, over."

He waited patiently for the second lieutenant to respond. When Cenk did, his tone was dry. "Did you take a nap?"

Zhan continued to watch the front of the villa. "Women should never be allowed to drive." He had nearly lost count of the number of times he had been forced to back off, and it had taken far too long to convince her that she wasn't being followed. Even then her route had not been direct. "Confirmed safehouse. At least four, not including our old friend."

There was a brief pause. "Do you have a foothold?"

Zhan lowered the glass, glancing over his shoulder at the silk-robed silhouette lying on the lounge chair behind him. "Do I need one?"

"Kenan wants you on surveillance only for now."

The major sighed silently. Not unexpected. "What of Alpha?"

"They were led to an old cannery. The lieutenant is taking a few recruits on a quick seek and destroy."

Which made sense. They would let the Americans think they took the bait, attack and destroy the facility, and withdraw. The agents might or might not believe their little ruse had worked, but either way they would be distracted and their forces temporarily reduced.

Which would make taking them out now a fairly easy job. A pity the lieutenant disagreed.

Zhan set the binoculars carefully on a large paving stone, and climbed to his feet. "The answer to your previous question is yes."

It was Saturday night. Which meant this particular timeshare had just acquired a new resident for the week. She was young, no ring, toiletries and clothes for one, clearly enjoying a holiday on her own. Even if her beau showed up later in the week, it was a minor thing. There would be no staff or cleaners until the following Saturday at noon.

It was roughly half a mile from the American's villa, so outside a typical security perimeter, and overlooking, giving him the advantage of height. It would do quite well.

"Well then, get comfortable, major. I'll send Eren with a kit."

"Acknowledged." Zhan twitched his head to the left, dislodging the offending radio, and stared down at the unconscious woman for a moment.

Bathtub would be the least mess. He hoisted her up by her arms, pulling her up over his right shoulder, and then he proceeded through the french doors to the master suite.

-M-

This ended up being way longer than intended, but for those of you who were waiting so patiently for Jack to make it home, I didn't want to leave you with a cliffie.

Things should pick up pretty fast from here on out. I appreciate all of you, especially those of you who are sharing specifics. It's very helpful and lets me know what works for you and what could use some improvement. I'm getting the feeling the technical details aren't adding much, so I'm going to trim those back. Anything else dragging you kind readers down?


	11. Chapter 11

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

If the eighty-three steps down the hallway didn't clue him in, the temperature surely did, and Mac lifted his chin a little as the hood was pulled off, to save himself the tug on his scalp.

The table was still pushed off to the back of the room, so clearly not on the menu today, and he didn't bother to look further. They dragged him towards the center of the floor, and he didn't make it easy.

God, he was so tired.

"I know you are, buddy. I know."

They let him fall, and he landed on sore knees on the cold stone. The dust was long gone, washed away by too many gallons of water to count, and Mac tried hard not to listen to the pulley above him, and the coarse rope being threaded through it.

The rope was worse than the zipties. At least those left a clean slice.

"Mac." Jack's voice was sober. "Dude, you let them keep cuttin' up your wrists, you're never gonna get out of here."

_That ship has sailed, big guy._

"Hey." It was a growl. "We've talked about this, kid."

Rough hands grabbed his forearms, pulling his arms up to swap the ties for the rope, and Mac waited patiently. The moment the mechanism clicked, he moved, but the routine was as familiar to them as it was to him. Someone hit him in the mouth, and the opportunity was gone.

The stubbly rope felt like fire going on, and Mac did everything he could to keep quiet.

"Dammit, Mac, we talked about this!" Jack had the audacity to sound pissed off. "You gotta pick your battles. Phoenix has a party line for exactly this reason!"

Soon enough it was done, and his bound wrists were dropped back into his lap. Mac relaxed his jaw and ran his tongue over the cut – the inside of his bottom lip was never gonna be the same. Then he opened his eyes, picking up his head just enough to glare at the corner. His shadow was there, he always was, and about three feet away from him, Jack was pacing along the wall.

When he realized he had his partner's eyes, Jack stopped, and then shook his head with a half-smile. "Man, I love the attitude, I do, but enough's enough. This is not the hill you wanna die on."

_I'm not giving up the Phoenix, Jack. If they're still looking, I'm not putting them in more danger than they're already in._

If Matty was still looking for him, chances were she'd had to use resources that could be traced back to the Phoenix Foundation. Property rental. Vehicle rental. Airline tickets. Phone calls. All he had to do was say the name, and those agents became instant targets.

His partner looked like he wanted to strangle him. "Man, I know you don't believe this, but trust me, Matty wears her big girl panties to work every single day."

Mac closed his eyes briefly. _Thanks Jack, for that mental image. Because I wasn't in enough pain already._

His partner growled something in his throat.

"You know, I am not feeling so well today." It was someone behind him, and Mac waited silently as the footsteps circled him, and a fist grabbed his hair, forcing him to look up.

It was his least favorite Turk. The soldier that had shot Jack.

The man gave him a small shrug. "Let us not do this today. Eh?"

"Mac, just tell him."

 _Shut UP, Jack_.

The Turk shook him a little. "Why do you not tell us who employs you? Is your boss so terrible?"

"Big girl panties," Jack whispered loudly, and Mac gave him a half-incredulous dirty look.

"Ah! This is why you called him Atilla the Hun, yes?"

His hair was released, and Mac unobtrusively eased the crick out of his neck.

"You know, in Turkey, we take Huns very serious."

Jack started to laugh. "Oh, dude, did he seriously just say that? Because I been saying it for _days_ –"

_Yeah, great Jack, you share a hive mind with your murderer. Glad you two are getting along._

"Yes." The Turk sounded somber. "I understand, American, why you will not speak of him. You fear him more than us. I guess we will both have to . . . struggle? Yes. Struggle through."

He snapped his fingers at the third solider, who obligingly cranked the winch. And instead of hauling a candle-powered lantern towards the ceiling, the rope instead tugged his wrists inexorably upward.

Mac closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He already felt like he was going to puke, and they hadn't even started.

_. . . Jack, I don't think I can do this._

"Mac, brother, I know you're scared but you been trained for this." His voice was almost pleading. "You're gonna have to talk. If you can't keep the lies straight, tell 'em the truth. Just not all of it."

MacGyver lifted his arms to ease the pressure on his wrists, but in a few seconds he was going to have to stand, and he wasn't sure he could.

"Matty knows what she's up against. She's the damn director for a reason. Trust her!"

If he opened his mouth, he'd never get it closed again. His name had been bad enough. That just hurt him. Telling them anything else, about Phoenix, about the team -

But there was no way he could get through another session like yesterday.

MacGyver shook his head, rejecting whatever Jack was going to say before he could say it, and the pulley stopped, with his wrists just above his head. He let his face fall into his arms, hiding it from the room.

Hiding it from himself.

_I can't do this._

"Mac, you're gonna have to. It's gonna happen one way or another."

The Turk's voice was exaggeratedly curious. "No? What does this mean?"

Mac bit his lip till it started to bleed again, and didn't move.

"You do not want to do this either?"

On the wall, he heard Jack run his hand through his hair. "Look, kid, just tell him that you can't tell him. Start there."

Someone put a hand on the rope, above his wrists, and Mac responded before he could think. "No."

The hand remained on the rope, but it didn't shake him. "No? Then you will tell me who you work for."

Mac kept his eyes closed and his face hidden. "No. I won't."

The Turk made a sound of disbelief. "Then we will just have to keep going." He jerked up on the rope unexpectedly, making Mac yelp, and he heard Jack growl from the wall.

"They're . . . scientists. Scholars. They're no threat to you. I'm . . . I'm not giving them to you. I won't."

There was a brief silence, and then something completely unexpected happened.

" . . . you just lied to us, American."

It was coming from the corner of the room.

Mac slowly picked up his head, and he stared through his oily bangs at the man. His shadow had never spoken to him, not in all the time they'd spent together. He had his little book out, his little black book of secrets, but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking right at him.

His English was mostly unaccented, like the medic. And he sounded surprised.

Mac watched him a moment, then shook his head. "No lie."

His shadow clicked his tongue. "Scholars do not extract government employees from foreign soil."

Mac very intentionally didn't look at his partner.

_Dammit, Jack, I told you this was a bad idea!_

"Not me," he said aloud. "Them."

But his shadow knew that was garbage. "And what do scholars need with an Army EOD technician?"

Mac felt his stomach drop.

Well, he'd given them his name. Not his surname, but it wasn't like 'Angus' was all that common. Aydin obviously had access to Turkish intelligence. Once he'd given up his name, even if it was only his first name, it had only been a matter of time.

His partner stayed silent, and Mac wondered if Jack was even still there. He didn't dare look.

"Yes, American, we know who you are." His shadow didn't move from his corner. "Lies will not be tolerated."

He knew what was coming, and he knew how it was going to end. "Please!" He softened his glare, letting some of the panic show. "Please, it's the truth, I swear it's the truth -"

His shadow held up a hand to the soldier at the winch, stopping him just in time. He didn't say anything else, studying Mac intently. The other soldiers in the room with them remained totally quiet, seemingly as ill at ease as Mac was. When his shadow finally did speak again, his voice was quiet.

"Make me believe you."

Unthinkingly, Mac glanced to his right, and he was honestly surprised to see that Jack was still there, on the wall. His partner didn't look accusing, or disappointed. Instead, he gave him a reassuring nod. "You got this."

He did not got this.

The only thing that came to his whirling mind was the party line. "I work for a . . . a think tank. We contract with government agencies on request."

"Which one?"

Mac met his eyes squarely, and he shook his head.

"Dammit, Mac-"

_Not gonna happen, Jack. I've already said too much as it is._

His shadow seemed content to let him keep that secret for the time being. "What do you do for this think tank?"

The truth. Just not all of it. "I accompany other agents into the field to . . . to solve unexpected complications."

"Like the agent that was with you?"

Mac nodded.

"And did he work with you, at this think tank?"

Aydin's men had seen Jack in action. The colonel had said he had been a handful. They were never gonna believe Jack was an engineer.

"Mac, just tell 'em. I'm dead. What're they gonna do, picket my funeral?" He scoffed. "They probably missed it already anyway."

That thought stung, and Mac struggled to concentrate on the question. Did Jack work for Phoenix. The answer had to be no. " . . . not directly."

Suddenly Jack snapped his fingers, and Mac couldn't help but glance at him. His partner looked stunned. "Shit, you didn't go to my funeral? What the hell gives, man?"

Mac refocused quickly on his shadow, who hadn't missed the lapse.

"I don't believe you."

Half truth. He needed a half truth. " . . . he was CIA."

That was . . . actual truth. He _was_ CIA. Until he was DXS.

But his shadow shook his head. "No he wasn't."

Jack was still horrified by the concept of his own funeral. "Who the hell gave the eulogy, then? Jesus, I hope it wasn't Matty. Or any of the guys from my unit - damn, the stories they could tell-"

Delta unit.

Jack didn't fight like an agent. He fought like an operator. "Before he was an agent, he was a soldier."

His shadow seemed willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Really. Special forces?"

Clearly he was looking for a confirmation of something he already thought he knew. And if Mac got any more specific than CIA and soldier, he was going to give them enough to actually figure it out. Mac didn't look at Jack again.

His shadow had made the cost of being caught in a lie very, very clear.

". . . bud. Just tell him. It ain't gonna hurt me one bit."

No one could hurt Jack. Not anymore.

But a memory, that could be betrayed. And he wasn't about to let his partner down a second time.

". . . Green Beret."

Jack swore, quietly, but the shadow didn't contradict his answer, and Mac didn't let his expression change.

"Did you meet him during your time in the Army?"

Mac silently shook his head.

"How many jobs did you contract with the CIA?"

Yeah, that was definitely going to come back to bite him later. Mac let his forehead rest against his arms for a moment. "I don't know. Dozens."

"How many times were you partnered together?"

At some point, he'd closed his eyes. ". . . a lot."

Every damn day, it seemed like, for five years.

How could it have only been five years?

"He was your friend."

Mac had already said that, in a hundred different ways, so he just stayed quiet.

"Well, Angus MacGyver, I believe you." His shadow sounded thoughtful. "I believe you wish to protect your colleagues. And I believe your resourcefulness is why you were sent here."

Mac remained where he was, and waited for the other shoe to fall.

Now that they had him, now that he'd talked, now that they _knew_ how to make him talk, what he was willing to say, what he wasn't –

This guy was the real interrogator. And he was just getting started.

Jack's voice was suddenly right by his ear. "Mac, listen to me. You did good. You hear me? They start rooting around to confirm what you told 'em, they're gonna tip off the CIA. Sarah's gotta be going crazy by now. If anyone starts lookin' me up, she's gonna find out why. That was a smart move, man. Keep 'em coming."

"But, American . . . you do not get to choose what questions you will answer, and what questions you will not."

The soldier by the winch shifted, Mac could hear his uniform rustle, and he braced himself the best he could.

But nothing happened. The winch didn't move. The rope didn't tighten.

He heard the door open, and two people left the room.

The door closed again, the sound heavy and final. Mac didn't open his eyes, and he didn't pick up his head.

Of course. On his knees, arms above his head, half naked in a cold room. Classic stress position. They didn't have to tighten the winch any further. They didn't need to make him stand. The more tired and cold he became, the more body weight he'd put on his wrists. His shoulders were already burning from the strain of holding up his arms.

"We will stay here, you and I, until you tell me the name of the organization that employs you."

-M-

Matty kept her expression bland as she watched the light show. Once the explosion enveloped the parking lot security cameras, the footage ended. "Were those rockets?"

Director Bosch didn't look nearly as pulled together. "Good eye, Director," she complimented coldly. "As you can see, the attack triggered a secondary explosion."

Yes, the entire building going up in flames was a pretty good indication a secondary explosion had been triggered. In hindsight, perhaps they should have picked some type of granary instead of a cannery, since typically soup wasn't all that flammable.

Beggars couldn't be choosers.

"And you think those were part of the arms that were stolen from Camp Bondsteel?"

NATO Strategic Commander Ives made a show of glancing at a copy of the inventory. The one he'd passed along had been pretty '-ish,' all it said was a quantity of 'shoulder-fired anti-tank and anti-personnel weaponry.'

Matty waved off any response. The question had been rhetorical. They did, or Bosch wouldn't have pulled NATO into a conference. "So what was so interesting about this cannery?"

"We're still looking into that. It changed ownership a week ago, purchased by a shell company." Director Bosch glanced at her portfolio. "The remains of four bodies were recovered, all too damaged to ID."

Director Webber nodded. "Do you want us to look into this as well?"

"I'm less interested in training exercises and more interested in my base security," Commander Ives interjected. "Your report keeps getting lost in the mail."

Matty gave him a bright smile. Of course the State Department hadn't turned over their initial findings to NATO. In Director Bosch's defense, typically the State Department waited for final reports before distributing them, but some of the findings they had already uncovered were time-sensitive. "We haven't completed our investigation, but I'm happy to share what we have so far." She gestured, and Liz, seated on the sofa to her left, nodded and started typing.

"We found evidence of network intrusion and a data breach at Raytheon's corporate offices in Florida. Our analysts confirmed that a list of all Raytheon systems in Europe and the Middle East was accessed. They got the locations, installation dates, system versions, and contract details." Everything an industry competitor would need to try to upsell their opponents.

"Well." The commander's mustache had a small wrestling match with his upper lip. "I suppose we'll be reviewing our contract with them in the very near future."

"It's a little worse than that. Contracts that hadn't been executed yet were part of the breach."

". . . so they know where we're thinking about installing new systems, not just about the ones we've already bought."

Matty nodded regretfully. "I'm afraid so."

"Were you able to track down the attacker?"

She pursed her lips. "Not definitively. The hack was more complex than we typically see from ISIS or other Middle Eastern groups. This was more likely a nation state."

Or a foreign intelligence organization. Her forensic analysts were leaning towards North Korea, but they had cautioned that anyone who wanted to perform this type of corporate espionage would attempt to frame a nation state.

The commander nodded slowly. "I presume that's also how they got the codes?"

That was the part she was a little fuzzy on herself. "There were other records accessed, including proprietary system designs, but we can't say for certain one way or the other."

"The report is still preliminary," Director Bosch added unnecessarily. "As soon as the analysis is complete, you'll get the full report."

"This calendar year would be nice."

Behind Matty, Liz smothered a small sound.

"I'm sure the Phoenix Foundation will do its best," Bosch replied, and the commander gave them a polite nod and excused himself from the conference.

Once he was gone, Matty focused on Samantha, who closed her eyes and sighed.

"Tell me those weren't your agents."

Matty was only too happy to oblige. "Those weren't my agents." Her agents were a little bruised and banged up, but very much alive, and hopefully back to the safehouse by now.

"The Secretary was very clear that Phoenix was to discontinue any operations –"

"In Turkey," Matty finished. "And we did. Where was this cannery located?" She made a show of checking the map. "Ah. Greece."

Her peer at the State Department rubbed her temples. "Matilda, I have assured you, and will continue to assure you, that we are doing everything possible-"

"And yet my agency was able to do the _impossible_ and actually recover one of my missing agents – the one who was KIA, not MIA," she snapped. "I'm beginning to think you don't actually want to find MacGyver."

Samantha Bosch dropped her hands to her desk, folding her fingers together tightly. "I look forward to your finalized report on the Raytheon breach. In the meantime, since you clearly have agents on the ground in Greece, we accept your offer to investigate the attack. I'm sure that report will be very interesting reading."

Matty gave her a cold smile. "Happy to help a fellow agency."

She gestured, and Liz cut their connection. Matty took a moment to locate her coffee mug, and another moment to consider whether she should add creamer. The eighty proof kind.

Liz cleared her throat. "Would you like me to, ah-"

She nodded without turning. "Yes, let's completely ruin our Sunday. We're already off to such a great start."

Matty rolled her head on her shoulders and waited for the connection. After a moment, the window came up, showing them a mostly empty room. Riley was seated off to the left of the screen in an overstuffed armchair, and she glanced up and gave them a nod.

"Cage is on her way up."

Matty nodded, then sighed the rest of her previous irritation away. "How's our boy?"

The young agent tried to smother a fond smile. "He's . . . he's okay. In pretty good shape, considering."

The report the doctor had sent along agreed partially with that analysis. He was in pretty good shape, considering he was given third world medical care and enough opiates to put down a herd of rhinos. They'd put him on antibiotics and Narcan to sober him up, but he was a far cry from a functional agent and he wouldn't be for some time.

"Well, maybe he could consider sending in a debriefing so his boss would know," she suggested pointedly, and then a scruffy face appeared on the right-hand side of the screen.

"Hey Matty," Jack said brightly, limping fully into view, and she fixed him with the most annoyed look she could manage. There was nothing to gain by showing him how legitimately pleased she was to see him, alive and breathing.

But she was. Far more than she would have thought, considering she was looking at Jack Dalton.

"Hey Jack. Would you care to explain to me why I just received a bill from a Bulgarian hospital where you very clearly weren't treated?"

He froze, then rubbed the back of his head with his left hand, and she caught a glimpse of an angry red mark on his bicep. "Uh, yeah. About that -"

"The boy's family refused treatment," she cut him off. "The hospital discharged him three hours ago."

The mics in the room weren't great, but she was pretty sure she heard Jack swear. ". . . okay, let me talk to them, I'm sure it's just a little trust issue and we can work it out."

"Your Stockholm syndrome is touching, but these are people, not puppies." People who had walked out of the hospital lobby and apparently melted into the pavement. At the very least, he should be happy about that. There was no evidence that Aydin's men had any interest in the gypsies, now that Jack was safely back in Phoenix custody. "They're in the wind. There's nothing else we can do."

He didn't look happy. He looked pissed. "Matty-"

"I appreciate that they saved your life, Jack, but those people almost handed you right back to Aydin," she reminded him. "You tried. We have bigger things to worry about right now."

He crossed his arms in his usual sulk, but she was spared any further lectures by the arrival of several other agents. Samantha was among them.

"Good afternoon," she greeted them.

"Director," Cage responded. "I take it we heard back from the State Department?"

"Good guess. Also the Hellenic Police. What did we get for that sixty thousand euro explosion?"

Samantha glanced to her right, towards Riley, and a small map appeared on Matty's monitor. "Riley's tracking the colonel's men via satellite. The last pair left after the bodies were recovered. We're hoping they'll return to properties we've already identified as associated with the colonel."

Jack glanced over at Cage. "Bodies?"

Cage started to answer, but Matty jumped in. "Yes, Jack. While you were spending your two week vacation in an opium den, Riley here decided the best way to find you was to launch a cyberattack on all healthcare organizations in a three country radius, and frame Russia for it. We didn't find you, but we did find several morgues and crematories that are, how should I put this, less reputable than their state-run brethren."

Jack transferred his look to Riley, who was suddenly absorbed by her laptop.

Cage gave Matty a tight smile and continued. "The recruitment center in Kesan should be open for business in three days. Saito and Tunstall will go in as new recruits, determine the location of the colonel's main base of operations, and give Riley access to their network."

Matty nodded. "What about General Doukas?"

Samantha shook her head. "He's tied up with meetings this week, the Lady King doesn't have another appointment with him until Friday. We should have actionable intelligence on Aydin before then."

Matty considered that timetable for a moment. "Is there any chance you blew your cover when you rescued our junkie?"

"Hey," Jack protested mildly, and Cage shook her head.

"No. We've seen no evidence that Aydin's men are in communication with Doukas. He's meticulous about keeping his life and work in Greece separate from his involvement with Aydin. And I still think breaking into his safe is too risky. I don't think the general is that involved with Aydin's day to day affairs, and if he believes for even a moment that the recruitment effort is in jeopardy, he'll pull the plug to cover his involvement."

And the recruitment angle was really all they had. There were simply too many places the colonel could have stashed MacGyver, and Phoenix didn't have the resources to hit them all even if the Secretary of State hadn't tied her hands. Their only option in that regard would be to leak the intel to NATO and the Turkish military, and hope that Erdogan was angry enough at Aydin to authorize a strike.

That was the nuclear option. There was no guarantee that Mac would survive the attack, since they couldn't tell NATO or Turkey that Aydin was holding a US agent. NATO thought they were looking for a US citizen, and in an all-out strike on Aydin and the separatist militia, one US civilian reporter would be fairly low on the list of priorities.

"I'm recommending that the majority of our agents relocate to a new safehouse," Samantha continued. "Last night was too close, and we've been here too long."

The majority, but not the Lady King. It would tip Doukas off that something was up just as surely as getting caught red-handed breaking into his safe to get the phone he used for communications with Aydin. Cage was proposing taking all the agents out except herself, her chef, her maid, and their bodyguard.

Matty shook her head. "I don't like the idea of leaving you and McMurtrie that exposed." Forget adding Bozer and Riley to that mix. "You should know where Aydin's men are headed by the end of the night tonight. Worst case, we'll move you all when Agents Saito and Tunne enlist." That meant three more days in the current safehouse. "You're sure you weren't followed last night?"

Cage nodded, but she didn't look happy about it. The black hair was really throwing Matty off.

"Increase your security protocols. And Jack?"

He was still standing there, leaning heavily on his right leg, being unusually quiet. He gave her a 'who, me' look.

"Yes you. I want you to share any intel you collected on Aydin and his men while you and Mac were making friends, and then I want you on the first flight back to Los Angeles."

He stared at her blankly.

She glared.

He crossed his arms. "Matty, you know that ain't gonna happen."

 _There_ was the Jack Dalton she so hadn't missed. "That's an order, Jack."

He shook his head like he was watching the pendulum on a clock. "No can do."

Matty gestured at the image of him on the screen. "Jack, look at yourself. What are you gonna do? You were literally eviscerated by a bullet and stitched up by a housewife. You're feeling no pain because you've got more narcotics in your system than a Columbian drug lord. You're a liability. There's nothing you can do to help Mac. Get your ass on a plane."

He said something to her in a foreign language she didn't recognize, and she tilted her head, then transferred her glare to Riley.

Riley typed something, then her eyebrows raised. "Uh, Jack, do you know what you just said?"

He grinned broadly. "Why yes I do. Now, how many of the other agents here speak Turkish?"

Matty pretended to look impressed. "Wow, you can swear in a foreign language. Learn anything else in Gypsyland?"

His grin slowly faded. ". . . they've had him two weeks, Matty. I'm not leavin' without him."

She briefly considered asking for the room. "Jack, I know what he means to you. But Cage doesn't have time to babysit. You feel pretty good now, but that's going to wear off fast, and then you'll just be a burden on the other agents." She hated to be that blunt, but he needed to understand. "If we're going to get Mac out of this, we're going to need everyone in top form. The best thing you can do for him right now is take care of yourself, so that you'll be ready to take care of him."

Everyone in that room, with the exception of Riley and Bozer, were experienced enough to know that there was no way MacGyver was going to walk away from this unscathed. If he walked away at all.

She saw Jack flinch, though she wasn't sure most of the other agents in the room could tell. For a long moment, no one said anything. She never lost his eyes, but eventually he seemed to deflate, just a little bit.

"After we see where Aydin's boys end up."

He wanted to stay another 24 hours.

Matty looked to Cage. It was her op, so that was her call.

Samantha gave him a once over. She could have said something, made some excuse for him, but she didn't. And he never looked at her, never acknowledged that it wasn't his decision to make.

Cage considered her words carefully. "I'll make sure he's on his flight, Director."

Reprieve it was. Samantha didn't realize how difficult it was going to be to tell him no.

-M-

It had taken him the better part of half an hour to find the energy to move, and once he did find it, Mac realized he didn't need to.

They hadn't replaced the restraints. He was free to lay however he wanted.

So he remained exactly where he was, shivering, curled up just inside the door. He wasn't sure if his shadow was behind him, and he almost didn't care.

Almost.

In front of him, Bozer mirrored his position, laying on his side. Like when they were kids, in their sleeping bags up in the treehouse. He hadn't said anything, and Mac didn't have anything else to say, so they just lay there and stared at each other.

After all, he'd fucking said enough.

Mac closed his eyes, and waited for sleep he knew wasn't coming. He had been trained out of it, now that he'd 'bought' himself the opportunity for it his body was far too used to its new habit.

For the first time since getting picked off by Aydin's men, Mac was having to fight back tears.

_Guys, I'm sorry._

He was too tired, and he hurt too much. He wasn't strong enough.

From somewhere above his head, in his preferred corner of the room, he heard Jack give an irritated huff.

And it only made things worse.

He had listened to a damned hallucination. He knew well and good that Jack wasn't really there, just like Bozer wasn't really there. He wanted them to be – oh, how he would have given anything, _anything_ for Jack to still be alive, even if it meant he'd been experiencing all the things Mac had been experiencing.

Which was pretty damn selfish.

But at least Jack would really be there. Not his brain's inaccurate rendition of Jack, but actual Jack Dalton, the actual Delta Force operator that would have given him actual advice on how to actually deal with the situation he was in.

He had listened to his mind's version of Jack, which had told him, without doubt, what he wanted to hear.

And apparently, he wanted to hear that it was okay. That it was okay to give in. To give up. To sell out his best friend for a few hours' rest.

To sell out everyone else for a few hours' rest.

Because that was exactly what he'd done.

Bozer sighed, getting comfortable on the tile floor, and Mac didn't bother to open his eyes. How many times had Boze hung out with him, without his even asking, just to keep him company on long nights?

And it was going to be a long night.

Because tomorrow, they were going to come into his cell, and put a hood over his head, and drag him down two flights of stairs, and eighty-three steps down a hallway into a chilly room. And they were going to ask him questions.

And he was eventually going to answer them. Just like he'd done today.

From his corner, Jack sighed.

"Well, that's about enough of that. Feeling sorry for yourself's not your style, man."

He didn't have a style. Not anymore. The thought was almost foreign as it crossed his mind, and Mac reached out and caught it, examining it like he would a curious clockwork box.

He had no idea what he looked like right now.

His waist was getting thinner and thinner. Pretty much every time he stood up, he was in danger of losing his pants. Again. He'd been hit so often, and so hard, he wasn't sure his nose was actually still straight. Whatever beard he could grow, he was, and he had no idea what color it even was. Darker than the hair on his head? Lighter? The same?

"Because that's important."

"Shut up," he whispered. "Just shut up, Jack."

He wouldn't be in this predicament if not for the ghost of fucking Jack Dalton. He would have held his tongue, he would have stayed quiet, or not, but at least he wouldn't have –

Wouldn't have –

Mac groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

_I gave up the Phoenix._

_Oh god. I gave up the Phoenix._

The one thing he knew, he _knew_ they wanted, to know who might still be looking for him. Now they knew. They knew who they were looking for. Just like they knew they were looking for Jack, an ex special forces operator turned CIA agent turned employee of the Phoenix Foundation.

Once they got Jack, they got Diane. Once they had Diane, they had Riley.

And his name, Angus MacGyver. Now they had his address, which meant they had Boze too.

His best friends. All of them in danger, because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut, and because he'd listened to Jack fucking Dalton.

And it wasn't even Jack's fault. It was his fault. His and his alone.

His brain. His subconscious. His need to –

"Live?" Jack suggested bluntly. "Man, I know you're usually an optimist, but when you fall, you fall hard, brother."

Yes. Live. Live to spend another day telling them everything he didn't want them to know.

It was over. Just like Jack had said. They had him.

Everybody talks.

Mac dug his temple into the floor. Intellectually, he knew that. They'd said it in training. Everybody talks. There is a limit to everyone's physical and mental strength and given enough time anyone's defenses could be overcome. He honestly didn't know how long it had been, but surely he could have hung on a little while longer –

"Mac. You did good down there. I know you don't trust your own brain right now, but it's all you got, man. Use it."

Even if he was able to string the interrogator along for a day or two, then what? Sooner or later he'd be caught in a lie. Any trust he'd built would be destroyed.

And he was no closer to figuring out why they were still keeping him alive. All this time, all this effort, and he hadn't given them anything useful until today.

And it wasn't all that useful.

Unless Phoenix had already brought the fight to Aydin?

Mac's eyes drifted open of their own accord. If Matty had taken things personally, and gone after Aydin, they really might be keeping him around for insurance. But that didn't seem like the colonel's style. He wasn't afraid of Turkey's entire army, it wasn't like he could have gotten to know Matilda Webber well enough to realize how dangerous she was.

He'd said he needed an analyst.

But he hadn't asked him to analyze anything. And after all this time, Aydin had to realize that he was never going to cooperate.

They knew he was never going to cooperate.

But they were still keeping him alive.

Bozer gave him a sympathetic look. "Man, I don't get it either. You're a pain in the ass. If I could afford rent on my own, you'd be history."

". . . I appreciate that, Boze."

"Glad I could help."

Outside the door, a pencil made a silent note, and the sergeant closed his little black book and retreated down the hall on light feet.

The American was now hallucinating both of them at once. Clearly he needed the support after being forced to surrender that which he wished to protect. His colleagues were more important to him than his own life. His reactions had been very consistently selfless in that regard.

He was nearly ready.

-M-

He pulled the gearshift into neutral, rattling it quickly to make sure it truly was out of gear, and eased his foot off the clutch and onto the brake. The parking brake ratcheted loudly into place, and then, finally satisfied the truck wasn't going anywhere, he gingerly stepped out of the doorless frame and trotted around to the back of the idling vehicle.

The man pulled the back door open very tentatively, as if fearful of what he might find, but relief washed through him when he saw that the monstrosity of a floral arrangement was still, somehow, intact. It was just as heavy as it had been when he'd put it into the truck, and he staggered almost blindly across the driveway, feeling for each step before trusting his weight to it.

Thankfully, the door opened as he approached, and he heard a young woman's voice.

"Herete?"

Greek.

With an American accent.

"Echo mia paradosi," he replied, which should have been obvious, and when she didn't immediately respond, he turned sideways, so that he could look at her over his shoulder.

The young maid was staring at the enormous arrangement of roses, irises, orchids, lilies, and flowers he couldn't even name, and whatever tenuous grasp of Greek she had clearly had not prepared her to deal with it.

Fortunately, the Lady King was British, and he could be sure that was an excuse for her staff to speak English.

"Where . . . may I put," he tried tenuously, his Greek accent still heavy, and the believably dark-complected maid took several steps back into the airy foyer.

"Please," she managed, and he flashed her a grateful smile and felt around for the final step into the house.

The hallway was wide, and there was a hall table and a mirror that was the perfect place for the arrangement to be showcased. He headed for it immediately.

"Oh, sir, please follow me –"

He pulled up at the last moment, turning and bouncing a little off the table but continuing gamely down the hallway after the sound of her footsteps. She led him down another hallway, more narrow, and held open a swinging door that led into a massive kitchen.

He turned sideways and shuffled through, squeezing himself tightly against the door to avoid damaging the blossoms, and someone whistled.

"Here," the maid suggested, gesturing at the wide island, and he was only too happy to carefully and slowly set down his enormous burden. Once he had the corner of the cube-shaped glass vase down on the granite, he eased it away from the edge, and was only satisfied when it was almost centered.

Then he stood back, and took a deep breath, giving her a relieved smile that she answered with one of her own.

There was a young man, African American, roughly her age, distractedly wiping his hands on a fairly clean apron. His short-cropped hair was neat, as opposed to her asymmetric cut, and his build was more powerful. An absolutely gorgeous stack of theeples was plated behind him, presumably for the Lady King, and he re-evaluated the young man.

Perhaps truly just a chef . . . ? But his sneakers and jeans said American.

"Amazing," the chef said at last, and his Kenyan accent was flawless on the word.

He looked between the two of them quickly, and then gave them a rapid nod. "Is this . . . right?"

"Oh, yes," the maid replied, before the chef could. "The Lady King will decide where it should go, and we will move it then."

"Ah," he agreed, and then he took a step back and gestured to the door. "I go . . .?"

The maid gestured, a little awkwardly, and he turned and pushed back through the swinging door. She followed, coming abreast of him to escort him back down the main hallway, and he nodded to her again as she held the door open for him.

"Thank you," he said, a little more sure of himself with the English, and she gave him an encouraging nod as he trotted down the steps. The door closed once he hit the main driveway, and then he hopped back into his truck, disengaging the parking brake with another loud ratcheting sound and putting the old delivery truck into gear.

He drove two and a half miles straight, until a small hill took him well out of line of sight, and then he took the next three right turns.

No traffic followed him.

The major continued down Smirnis, locating the correct alley and pulling up to the curb. He cut the engine, stepping out of the delivery truck. There were no cameras, and no employees out in the alley, and he pulled off the uniform shirt, folding it in half as he walked around the corner.

Zhan slipped into an unremarkable four door, laying the shirt neatly on the passenger seat and palming the phone there. He pulled out of the side alley into traffic before flipping it open and hitting the first speed dial number on the pad.

It rang once. "Good connect. I have access to the wireless network. Not hearing a lot of sound, though."

He sighed, silently. "I had to place it just off the foyer." The girl was barely trained, and her accent was sloppy, but she had done her job and not taken her eyes off him. And no one put a huge bouquet of flowers in a kitchen. Clearly they were going to check it for listening devices.

The hall table was the best he could do under the circumstances. Hopefully the American agents frequented the library he'd seen off to the left, or the parlor on the right. Otherwise the audio portion of the device wasn't going to be much help.

"I'll see what I can do."

Zhan almost hung up before he remembered. "What of the intelligence the sergeant collected?"

He heard a brief flurry of keystrokes. "On the surface, it checks out. The Phoenix Foundation is a think tank, headquartered in Los Angeles, California, founded five years ago, and they do contract with US government agencies. Your American agent's home address is also in Los Angeles."

Zhan waited a moment. "And yet . . . "

She hesitated. "And yet, this MacGyver's employment records are redacted."

So it was a front. "Who do you think they are?"

"I would be speculating. Several US intelligence agencies took my bait. The most persistent has been the CIA."

Zhan decided to take the more scenic route, and turned towards the shoreline drive. "The Central Intelligence Agency?" He would not expect them to be overly concerned about two agents, particularly two that had been sent on such a low-level mission.

"Out of character for them, I agree. Tell me, do you think the American is married?"

Zhan raised an eyebrow. "Are you interested?"

A delicate snort. "Perhaps one or the other of them has some kind of family relationship to someone higher ranking in US military or intelligence."

Zhan mulled that over, watching the water lapping gently over the rocky beach. It never glistened as cleanly on this side of the Mediterranean as it did near Arish.

For all that he believed they were wasting their time with the American agent, he had proved to be accidentally useful. Why would his agency, whatever it was, still be pursuing him so doggedly after so much time had passed? If he truly had all this valuable information, why would he have been deployed on such a basic recovery mission?

"Keep looking," he ordered, and Liris disconnected.

Major Oguzhan guided the car back inland, towards his new timeshare. The previous tenant had indeed intended to holiday with a male friend, but he had been polite enough to show up that morning. Eren had taken both the bodies for disposal when he'd dropped off the surveillance kit, leaving Zhan with a leisurely afternoon of recording the Americans' routines and tracking down the overwatch agent's favorite positions.

It was a nice break from the recruits.

-M-

I am afraid it's going to be kinda hard to avoid cliffies from here on out. My outline is full of them. I think it was **Alyssa Blackbourn** who said her characters do what they want, and I'm having that same experience. My current outline is only distantly related to its first draft. It's expanding. Without permission. This story may never end.

Special shout-out to **Gib** for medical assistance on the Jack front – thank you!


	12. Chapter 12

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Bozer looked up as the swinging door whispered open, revealing Saito, and he nodded his head in the direction of the breakfast nook before the other agent could say anything.

Saito took the hint and looked, and then shook his head and approached the island. It was loaded with the usual breakfast buffet, and he took care to help himself to the eggs, potatoes, veggies, and breakfast meats quietly.

Everyone kept such odd schedules. Bozer hadn't appreciated that the life of an agent would so closely mirror the life of a budding director and makeup artist. His sleep schedule had gotten crazy between quitting the burger joint and joining up with Phoenix, because slurries cured when they cured, and you needed to be ready to demold and start painting.

. . . well, that part hadn't really changed. Point was, you were awake when there was work, and you slept when there wasn't, and you didn't pay all that much attention to the blinding daystar in the sky.

He'd stumbled upon agents sleeping in the library, sometimes while he was doing their makeup. He'd found them sleeping in the driver's seats of their various vehicles, in the parlor, even in Riley's computer room when they were between reporting and surveillance.

So an agent sound asleep in a chair at the breakfast table, that wasn't so odd.

Except that it was Jack Dalton. An agent he was pretty ashamed to say he didn't think he was ever gonna see again.

Saito left him alone, leaning on the opposite counter to eat his food, and Bozer replaced the covers to keep everything warm. The Japanese agent silently raised his plate about half an inch.

_Thanks._

Bozer nodded to show that he understood, and spoke in a low voice. "He's out. Slept through me doing most of the dishes."

The Japanese agent nodded, mowing his way methodically through his breakfast. "Yeah, well. That's your brain on drugs. Any questions?"

Bozer snickered quietly despite himself, and leaned on the island, careful not to stare. For some reason, he felt like Jack would sense it and wake up. "He's really gonna be okay?"

"That guy?" Saito pointed with his fork. "Hell yes. He's a tank."

He looked a lot better than he had even yesterday. Probably that was because he'd shaved off the beginnings of his mountain man beard. He was dressed in a white cotton undershirt and someone else's tac pants, and his arms were crossed high on his chest, far away from his stomach. Bozer could see the bulge of the wrappings beneath.

"I'm surprised anyone trusted him with a razor."

Saito chuckled softly. "I'd trust that guy with mine any day. It gets him back to his normal."

Back to normal.

Bozer sighed a little and straightened, looking for something else to do, and the Japanese agent paused in his chewing, watching him.

"You and MacGyver rent a place together, right?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I've known Mac since we were kids."

"So you remember what he was like when he came back from overseas."

Wilt nodded slowly, not quite sure where Saito was going with it. "Yeah. He was . . fine. Maybe a little quieter, but it turns out he was working for DXS and couldn't tell me, so . . ."

Saito nodded, inhaling a slice of tomato. "You'll need to do that." He nodded his head again, indicating Jack.

Bozer blinked. "Shave his beard?"

The agent wasn't impressed. "Get him back to his normal."

That was the second time in two days someone had said something that made his stomach turn.

He wasn't an idiot. They'd come up with dozens of scenarios of why the colonel might have decided to take Mac with him on that ill fated helicopter jaunt. And it was pretty clear Mac hadn't wanted to go. Colonel Aydin needed intelligence on his enemies, and as long as the US supported Ergodan, they were part of that group of enemies.

He knew what you did with your enemies when you were a rogue separatist colonel. He'd done extensive research into Vietnam and Korean POWs, to make the General Wang of his movie as authentic as he possibly could. He'd even come up with a few little scenarios of his own, and ran them by Mac to see if he thought they were realistic.

Bozer studied the whorls in the granite countertop. It was a lot different when it wasn't research or fiction. "I'll just be happy to get him back, period."

The other agent didn't say anything else, polishing off the last bite, and Bozer held out his hand for the plate. He turned around to the dishwasher – much like Jack, nearly all the agents with military backgrounds ate insanely quickly and left almost no food residue on their plates – and when he came back up Saito was on his side of the counter, helping himself to the carafe of coffee.

"Dalton's not exactly consolation prize material, if you know what I mean." The agent leaned back against the island, looking again to where Jack was still sound asleep. "He was just the warm up. We'll get our man back."

Bozer nodded, and Saito gave him a pat on the shoulder that almost sent him stumbling. "When he wakes up, send him upstairs. The nerd herd's finally got some faces for us. Webber wants to know if Jack recognizes any of them."

". . . who the hell could sleep through all your yapping?" Dalton hadn't moved, or opened his eyes. "Worse than a pair of old ladies playing canasta."

Saito completely ignored him. "He's coming down off a two week high, so he's going to start being an irritable little bitch. Try to cut him some slack."

There was a low growl from the table. "I know you didn't go there."

"Morning, Dalton."

Jack cracked an eye open and glared at them. "Still?"

In his defense, he had spent almost the entire night awake with Riley, keeping an eye on Aydin's men. Bozer had stuck it out as long as he could, but he'd finally turned in around three. It was about eight local time, so Bozer was working on four hours' sleep, and Jack on less than that.

He was trying to maximize his time in light of Cage's looming deadline. And he'd done a pretty good job.

Aydin's men knew they were being surveilled. They'd arrived at the cannery in masks and hadn't even tried to infiltrate. They'd simply blow it to kingdom come. They'd left in three groups of three men each, and each group had ditched their vehicles at least once. Riley had nearly lost one of the teams on the ferry at Gallipoli, but she'd hacked the boat's cameras and they'd lucked out – even though the men and the vehicle were off-camera, they were only just, and the camera caught the bottom panel of the passenger door when it opened.

There had only been four white cars on the ferry, given the hour, and she'd matched the make and model.

Unfortunately, the three teams had each gone to a separate property. All three were on Riley's map. One to what appeared to be a safehouse near Istanbul, one to the recruitment center in Kesan, and one to the middle of nowhere on the wrong side of the Sea of Marmara.

Everyone's money was on either the recruitment center or the summer home in bumfuck. Both of which were in Turkey. Taking the recruitment center would require the entire team of agents, so they couldn't divide up and hit both.

They had to pick one.

And if they picked wrong, Mac would be moved, Doukas would be scared off, and they'd have to start all over again.

No one was happy about it, but the safer alternative was to wait a couple days and send Saito and John to enlist in the colonel's militia.

Leaving Mac there another two days. Because hey, what was two days in the great scheme of two weeks?

Jack slowly assembled himself from the inside out, curling up stiffly from the chair and getting his feet under him. The doctor Matty had engaged had given him a cane, which Riley had eventually confiscated after she'd been poked for the umpteenth time. He'd requested Bozer install a sword inside it, which he had not done.

He figured Jack probably wasn't looking for the prop kind.

Saito wisely didn't give Jack any more grief, instead pouring a second mug of coffee and handing it to the man when he finally limped over to them. Jack accepted it, downing a good portion of it before topping it off again, and the two agents proceeded out of the kitchen. Bozer looked around, but there wasn't much else for him to do, so he poured himself a cup of coffee and headed up to Riley's room.

By the time he got there, agents were in and out, and Jack was standing in front of the wall of monitors, staring at 3D rendered faces. Boze recognized the software; Jill had shown it to him when he was looking for a solution that would let him map agents' faces without having to lifecast them for prosthetics.

It was actually pretty cool. Based on the way a flexible mask, say a ski mask, was contoured, the software could extrapolate what must be underneath the fabric. It wasn't always good enough for facial recognition software, but in this case, they had a pretty small pool to match things to.

The colonel had stocked his militia with his own men from the Turkish Army. Two of the 3D faces already had names and photos associated with them.

Jack had eyes only for one. "Oh yeah. I remember him."

The picture beside the 3D face was labeled Kenan Yavuz. He had been a lieutenant prior to the coup, and was one of the Maroon Berets that Cage had mentioned back on the plane, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

Bozer gestured at the image. "So he's the colonel's right-hand man?"

Jack nodded slowly. "It's his strike team. I was personally introduced to two of 'em, and that guy-" and he pointed to the other face that had been matched to a person, "-wasn't one."

Samantha was standing a few feet behind Jack, getting a wholistic view of the maps and the searches. She'd also spent a lot of the night up, as far as Bozer knew she hadn't actually turned in.

"Well, unfortunately, I can't tell you anything else about him." Riley sounded tired. "His record looks just like yours, Jack." A window popped up, showing document after document with thick black lines through nearly all the text. Entire pages were fully redacted.

The text that was visible, what little there was, was in Turkish.

"Can you dig up the rest of his team?"

Riley turned her head a little further, acknowledging Cage. "I don't know. I'll keep working on it."

Cage sighed, audibly enough that Bozer heard it, and he glanced at her in surprise. Usually she didn't express her displeasure like that. Like Matty. She caught his look, giving him a once-over, and Bozer straightened up a little and gave it right back.

It made her smile, just a little bit. She also rolled her eyes, just a little bit. "I'm sorry, Riley, I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, I know." The hacker didn't seem to be paying any attention, but then Riley surprised him. ". . . I really thought we'd find him last night."

Bozer glanced over at Jack, who was still standing in front of the wall of monitors, holding his cup of coffee. His face was largely expressionless.

". . . so did I," Samantha agreed. "But it looks like we're here another couple days. So listen up, everyone."

There were seven people in the room, and all eyes came to her – except Jack's.

"The odds of this villa being discovered are higher than ever. From here on out, I want everyone in a vest at all times. Sleeping, eating, working. We're going to put two agents on overwatch, rotating in a new pair every twelve hours. Anyone with a daily routine that requires significant exposure needs to be paired with another agent. Am I clear?"

There were nods all around, and Bozer assumed confirmation on coms. Cage tucked her hands into the pockets of her designer jeans and went back to studying the monitors. She may have been exhausted, and royally pissed, but she still had her own role to play, and the Lady King would never appear anything other than ready for a party at a moment's notice.

That the general – or rather, 'An Admirer,' - had sent her such a lavish bouquet of flowers meant she was still very much on his mind. There was no telling if he was going to make a few hours for her, and give Cage another shot at getting that cellphone.

"Riley, you need to sleep. Let Phoenix keep working on this."

The hacker continued typing for a moment, but eventually remembered to nod. ". . . yeah, just let me finish up this one thing."

That done, Cage's focus shifted to Jack. "It's time to go."

Jack, for his part, very deliberately took a sip of coffee, and said nothing at all.

Saito and Micah took that as their cue to leave, and Bozer waited for them to pass before moving to follow them out.

"Jack –"

"Relax, Cage." Something about his tone made Bozer pause. It was the voice he used when Mac was worked up about something, and he was trying to wind him back down. "I'm not dumb enough to go into the field."

Bozer turned, but stayed near the door, and tried to be very still. Across the room, he could see Riley was doing the same.

It seemed to work; Samantha was staring at Jack's back very intently, and didn't pay them any attention at all.

He took another sip of coffee, still studying the image of Kenan Yavus. "It's not my op. I get it."

"Do you?" Her voice was quite neutral.

Jack snorted. "I'm the only one that's seen these guys in action."

"And you can advise us from Los Angeles."

He seemed to consider that. "Not in any way that'd be useful."

Cage gave him that slow blink of hers, and took a step closer to him. "Jack, look at me."

Dalton did no such thing. Instead, he smiled at the monitor.

"See this guy?" He stared at the image a moment, then quietly laughed. "I used to know a guy, looked just like this. Square jaw. Lots of medals. Career military. Really believed in it, you know?"

Cage took another step towards him.

"Loyal. Dedicated." He made his tone grandiose. "Those words just stuck to a guy like that." The mug came back up, but this time he didn't drink. "Only followed the orders that made sense. Bent the rules when he needed to. Rained down hell on a lot of ragheads."

"Jack . . . look at me."

"Member of his team got popped by a sniper, oh, about a year before my time was up." The mug moved back and forth, estimating the timeline. "He handled it by the book. Retreated, got his teams' heads back on straight, and completed their mission."

Samantha took another step. She was nearly shoulder to shoulder, but she didn't make any move to touch him.

"Then he went and tracked down the sniper that took his man. Real systematic. They said he was calm, never angry. Never took his eye off the ball."

". . . then what happened?"

A broad Jack Dalton grin, that Bozer had long ago learned could mean a hundred things.

"He got the ball."

She took that final step, coming abreast of him, and she studied his face in profile. "Was he a friend of yours?"

A wry grimace warped his smile. "Nah. Real tight with his team, though. And his CO. Probably like this guy."

Cage shifted her gaze to the monitor. "Are you afraid of him?"

Jack snorted, and then it turned into a slow chuckle. "Him? His knife skills are shit. And that's sayin' something, because that's not my poison either." He seemed to remember that he'd picked up his mug, and he took another sip. "Coulda taken me out and put explosives under the cars just as easy as trackers."

Samantha just stood beside him, content to stare at the image. "That thought crossed my mind as well."

"And y'know what else?" The mug gestured. "He didn't even try to make contact. Followed us like a good little dog to the cannery, blew it, and bailed."

Bozer glanced behind them, at Riley, and saw that she was just as riveted as he was. He'd never seen this side of Jack. Not in all the years he'd been hanging on their back deck, even the nights he'd been legitimately pissed.

"He knows the only reason we're still on his ass is to get Mac back. The end game is getting the current Pres out of power and propping up his CO. We're not the ball here. Smart play would've been to give us the body and a one-finger salute."

The body being Mac's body. Bozer was stunned Jack could say something like that so cavalierly.

"You think he wants to use Mac to depose Erdogan?"

Jack shook his head. "He don't know our boy like we do. Nah, there's some angle here we don't have."

Cage and Matty already talked about that, at length. Bozer had not been privy to the conversation, per se, just the recording Riley had made. Everyone was in agreement; if Mac was dead, Aydin would have arranged for his corpse to be found. With Mac out of the picture, there was less incentive for the US to pursue the colonel.

And not because he was a loyal Phoenix agent and a US citizen. It was because groups like Oversight saw Mac as a threat to national security. He was a liability to them.

"And you think you can find this angle?"

He grunted, and then looked at his coffee mug like he hadn't noticed it before. "Sure as hell can't from LA."

She transferred her attention back to Jack, and took one more step, finally able to make him do what he had been avoiding all this time.

Look at her.

A moment passed, and then another. She didn't say anything, and neither did Jack.

"You're on medical leave. I'm the senior agent."

His expression didn't really change. "Uh-huh."

"You do what I say when I say it."

This time Jack really had to think. "Well, that's gonna depend –"

"On nothing," she cut him off. "I tell you to go, you go."

Jack was silent, for such a long time that Bozer was pretty sure that was going to be the straw that broke the Dalton's back. But then he tilted his head and downed the rest of the coffee like it was bourbon.

"We get him out of this, I'll go wherever you want."

-M-

Smoke.

The odor roused him from a troubled sleep. Burnt rubber. Electrical. Never a good sign. Mac opened his eyes, then closed them again at a sudden stinging. It was dark.

Behind him, he heard someone groan.

Mac shifted, or at least he tried to. A gentle rain of debris accompanied the movement, and he discovered that everything hurt. He felt like he had a full body sunburn, but his head was by far the worst, pounding to his pulse. He brought up a hand, pressing it to his forehead. His wrist caught on his shirt cuff, chafing uncomfortably, and his searching fingers came away sticky.

Mac cautiously opened his eyes again, this time expecting the sting, and tried to get his bearings.

There was surprisingly little smoke, for how acrid it smelled. Emergency lighting gave everything a reddish tinge. The room was small, maybe ten by ten. It looked like a dull grey. File cabinets lined the visible walls, and there was paper everywhere.

He winced, rolling onto his back, and located the door. It dangled drunkenly in its frame by a single bent hinge. Smoke and dust hung heavily in the air of the hallway outside.

Between him and it, another person was stirring.

Mac crawled onto his hands and knees, wincing again at his throbbing head, and he reached out and carefully rolled the other person over. He was wearing a military uniform, one Mac didn't immediately recognize, it was a little too tight in the arms. But even before he'd gotten the other man onto his back, he knew who it was. He'd recognize that hair anywhere.

Jack groaned again, squinting up at him, and Mac tried to blink the blood out of his right eye.

". . . we _may_ want to take cover? Are you kidding me . . . ?"

Mac stared at him a second, then took a second look around. Explosion, obviously, no shrapnel damage to the door visible, so not a grenade. Electrical fire, maybe ignited some type of gas . . .?

He had no idea where they were.

Mac quickly patted down his partner, checking for injuries, and as he brushed paper and debris off Jack's lower body the other agent hissed. The light wasn't great, but the small round hole in the uniform's left leg, coupled with the wet sheen of blood, was a dead giveaway.

He glanced down at himself, somehow not surprised to see he was wearing the same type of uniform – his was way too big – and Mac made short work of improvising a bandage. He stripped and used Jack's canvas belt to keep pressure, and the big guy just grunted as it was tightened.

". . . hey, Mac-"

He didn't have a mirror, but he didn't need one with Jack around. The expression on his face told him plenty. Jack was reaching up for him, undoubtedly to point out the blood on his face, and Mac redirected the hand and used it to haul Jack into a sitting position instead.

"I'm good."

His wrist caught on his uniform cuff again, and Mac could see abrasions on Jack's wrists, too. They'd obviously been tied up some time recently, and none too gently.

Mac put the heel of his hand back up to his head, trying to find the source of the pain, but it was more generalized than local. Either way, he could see and hear, and he was lightheaded and nauseous, but in no danger of blacking out.

Probably.

So except for not having the foggiest idea where they were or what had happened, he was fine.

Jack blinked rapidly a couple times, fighting off the head rush, and then he was up and offering the same helping hand. Mac accepted, surprised at how wobbly he felt, and Jack helped him to one of the file cabinets He left him there, hunting around on the floor a moment before locating his gun, and limped over to the doorframe. Mac shook his head to clear it, and glanced down at the papers crumpled under his hand.

Some kind of form. The alphabet was Cyrillic.

Mac picked one of the pages up, looking at the stamp in the upper right-hand corner. A two-headed eagle wearing a crown and carrying two swords. It looked familiar, but the pounding in his head made it hard to think, and Mac tried to make sense of what it said.

It wasn't Russian, but it was close. Had to be Ukrainian, or maybe Serbian . . . ?

"It's clear."

Mac nodded, still studying the form a moment, and Jack waited for him before proceeding out the door.

The hallway didn't really clear things up. The emergency lighting here was the same as the file room, sodium bulbs with a reddish hue. It was clearly a military installation, there was more Cyrillic on the walls in green and red. Thick pipes ran along the ceiling. One of them was ruptured, bearing an impressive foot-long gash, and there was significant damage to the ceiling and walls.

Two bodies, in the same uniforms he and Jack were wearing, lay beneath it, covered in debris.

Jack checked them quickly, tucking the handgun away and swapping it for an assault rifle, and Mac glanced down the hallway in the opposite direction. It was dark, no emergency lighting at all.

"Mac!" Jack hissed, and he nodded and turned to follow. The lightheadedness wasn't fading, and he kept a hand on the wall to steady himself as he half-jogged to catch up to his partner.

They passed two rooms on the right, both damaged from the explosion, and then Jack brought their shuffling jog up short, and muffled voices finally penetrated the persistent buzz in Mac's ears. His partner grabbed him by his shirt, hauling him into the first open door on the left, and Mac tripped over a rolling chair, falling against a console as Jack yanked the heavy metal door closed behind them.

For a tense few seconds, they waited, but the shouting soon receded. When Jack removed the foot he was using to brace the door, Mac decided it was safe enough to look around.

Maybe he'd hit his head harder than he thought, because it looked like they'd just stumbled into the 1970s. Large banks of servers lined the walls, and the console he was sitting on looked like it belonged in a flight control tower, not an underground bunker. He identified radar, a tall cabinet with pressure gauges, and a display panel that looked vaguely like –

Mac pushed off the console, making his way to the main array, and he studied the pattern of the buttons and indicators. Most of the Cyrillic didn't mean anything to him, until he recognized the word 'Launch.'

Pressure gauges. Targeting computers. Radar.

Missile control.

The chair he'd tripped over was wheeled up behind him, and a firm hand pressed him into it. "Siddown before you fall down," Jack growled, spinning him around to get a better look at him, and Mac flinched despite himself when Jack touched his head.

"Easy. Ah, jesus, Mac," he added, wincing at whatever he was seeing. He reached under his uniform and tore off a generous chunk of white cotton shirt, folding it up before pressing it gently to Mac's skull. Mac got the picture, and put pressure on it himself, and Jack backed up a step and looked at his eyes.

"You with me?"

Mac obediently followed the finger waving in front of his face. "I'm fine, just a little dizzy."

"Yeah, I bet."

Mac leaned back a little in the chair, waiting for a brief swell of nausea to pass, and Jack gave the room a once over. "It's not gonna take them long to track us down. Dammit."

He went over to the far wall, where built-in shelves held binders full of manuals, and he studied the large map above the radio berth. Mac squinted, then gave up and went over, making out a detailed topographical map of the Mediterranean.

"Hey Mac, you think any of this crap still works?"

A little nonplussed, he nodded haltingly. It was clearly a backup control room, not the main one, but if it was still connected . . . "If we had power, maybe . . . but shooting our way out with missiles is a little overkill, even for you."

His partner looked at him, really looked at him, and Mac sighed and pressed the heel of his hand harder into his skull. The amnesia wasn't clearing. "Jack, what's going on? I don't . . . remember where we are."

In his defense, Jack did not shout. He took a moment to gather himself, which Mac's throbbing head appreciated, and grabbed him by the arms to steady him. "Okay. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Let's start with what you _do_ remember."

Mac opened his mouth, but he was at a loss. He didn't remember a mission briefing, no travel, the last thing he could remember was –

Was –

"Okay. Short version, we're in a supposedly decommissioned missile silo on the Montenegro/Serbian border. The NLA is planning to launch a few Cold War-era SSMs at targets somewhere in the Mediterranean. Ringing any bells?"

Not a one.

A strong feeling of déjà vu washed over him, suddenly, and Mac clung to it for all he was worth. It was no use; it was gone almost as soon as it happened, and no additional memories surfaced. He took a deep breath, hoping it would help.

It didn't.

"Okay, uh, what are they planning to hit?"

Jack gave him his 'I'm being patient but I'm not feeling it' look. "That's what we're supposed to be figurin' out. They were fueling rockets, and you just took out the O2 pressure, so that'll buy us a little time. You said we could use radar to throw the missiles off course, as long as you knew what the course was so we don't accidentally hit somewhere populated."

Mac was having a harder time following that than he should have. They took out the O2 pressure . . . ?

The overhead pipes in the hallway.

Well, that could explain the explosion. He must have cut off the flow before they blew the pipe, though, otherwise they would have been vaporized. Without remembering any of the details, it seemed like a hell of a risky move. He wouldn't have done that unless –

Unless the situation was dire.

A feeble burst of adrenaline cut through the fog in his brain, and Mac tried to focus on the rest of what Jack had said. Using radar to change the missile's course after launch was . . . doable. He'd have to give the missiles degree changes, so yeah, he'd have to know where it was originally headed to calculate where he could safely guide it.

Which was why Jack was looking at the map.

Mac wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to get rid of the last of the blood, then concentrated on the map. It looked just as old as everything else down there, forty years out of date. Yugoslavia was still a country, and Germany was split into East and West.

Jack pointed. "Here's us."

So, remembering basic geography, they were talking about firing SSMs into the Mediterranean over Macedonia. "You said they were targeting the Mediterranean Sea?"

"Yeah. Biggest target is a NATO fleet out there pulling Syrian refugees out of a floatin' tub armada before a storm rolls in and sinks 'em all."

Mac looked at him for a long moment, and then dropped his gaze to the radio that was literally on the desk directly beneath the map.

"Gee, why didn't I think of that?" Jack snarked. "You see a microphone, genius?"

Mac in fact did not. The microphone had been intentionally removed, down to the wire. "I could build one, but you're right. That's a bad idea." He looked back at the array. "We're in secondary missile control. Anything we say over radio, they'll hear in the main room." So even if they made contact with the NATO fleet, the NLA would know their target had been warned, and worse, know exactly where he and Jack were.

Jack grunted. "Well, in case you hadn't noticed, our coms are worthless down here. Any other bright ideas?"

In an underground silo, that was understandable. So . . if there was no way to call out and warn the fleet, then their next best option was to figure out the ships' positions themselves and re-route the missiles to open water.

There was a sudden, startling clunk, and the server cabinets began to whir to life. Mac closed his eyes reflexively as the overhead fluorescents flickered, then came up, and he let the light back in by degrees.

Jack's face didn't look any les concerned in the additional light. "Well, we got power."

Yeah. Now what to do with it.

Mac cast around the room, watching the systems coming up. The words were in Serbian, but the images were standardized the world over. Radar was radar. Radio was radio. And what he was seeing, they were seeing in the main control room.

For the purposes of re-routing the missiles, radio was largely unneeded. All communication could go over radar if necessary.

Although . . . the missiles would have onboard radio transponders built in, as a failsafe.

And all pre-launch should be going over a wire.

Mac went back to the rolling chair, still a little too wobbly to trust his legs, and analyzed the panel a moment.

The sense of déjà vu came back to him, more strongly. As if he'd sat at this very panel, and looked at the very same analog keyboard. But the keys were in Cyrillic. When had he been in a missile control room in Russia?

Mac shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Five launch bays. Okay. He started punching buttons, from the bottom up, until the dull green display gave him a matrix of numbers.

One through ten in Serbian was the same one through ten as the Roman alphabet. This he could do.

"What are you up to?"

Mac almost smiled. At least this time Jack would actually get it, since he was a pilot. "The main radio tower might be out, but the missiles have built-in radio transponders. When you boil those down, they send the same general blocks of code as naval transponders, just different numbers, obviously."

There was a second clunk, much like the one that had signaled the power being restored, and Jack glanced back at the door. Nothing else happened, but he left his position at Mac's shoulder a moment, crossing back to it. Mac kept an ear towards him, trying to figure out how to get the keyboard in front of him to communicate with the first missile bay, and he turned when he heard Jack unsuccessfully try the handle.

His partner swore. "Room's got magnetic locks."

Beside the door was as flat black panel. A key card reader.

A glance told him that Jack didn't have a badge or a key card hanging off his uniform. He looked down at his own chest.

"Well, that's not good."

"Hey, at least it's locked," Mac offered, and Jack gave him a dark look as he turned back to the console.

"One problem at a time, big guy." The panel didn't overly concern him. In fact, they could probably rig it to keep the door locked, which could buy them a little more time before –

Well, before the bad guys shot the lock off the door. And then came in and killed them.

A sharp stab of pain radiated through his head, and Mac stifled a surprised cry, pressing the cotton harder against his skull. The lightheadedness, the nausea, the sensitivity to light – he definitely had a concussion. Jack probably did too, from the pressure change alone that explosion must have caused.

They had more problems that just missiles and locks. He needed to hurry.

Mac finally got the keyboard to connect to the first missile bay, and he cast his mind back to his first sailing lesson. All commercial and military ships had some kind of automatic identification system, or AIS, to avoid collision. The transponders of nearby boats would handshake and automatically give their coordinates so on-board computers could decide whether or not to alert the captain of an imminent collision.

All they needed to do was get the missiles to issue that handshake, and then receive back the coordinates.

There was a military specific code, different for ships and aircraft, that a transponder would automatically respond to with its coordinates. It was a set of four numbers, repeating, but he couldn't remember if the naval one was a zero or a seven. The other one was aircraft. "Jack, is military intercept 0000 or 7777?"

Jack was busy prying the card key reader cover off, apparently way ahead of him on his plan to sabotage the door. "Dude, you're asking the wrong guy."

Mac paused, and then turned and looked at his partner. "Okay, how hard did you hit _your_ head?"

Jack hadn't turned around, still fiddling with the panel. "Man, I didn't hang out with squids."

He opened his mouth to point out that yes, he knew that, obviously he wanted the aircraft code, and then it happened again.

There was something familiar about all of this.

 _Well of course there is_. _It's not like a spaceship dropped us off here. I just can't remember._

But that wasn't it. It was the not remembering that was familiar to him. The thought of having amnesia. The comment about bells ringing. The console.

And Jack. Jack not being okay.

Was Jack not okay?

He was crouched by the panel, so the gunshot wasn't bothering him too much, but he was still limping. His eyes, when he'd been staring into them, looked fine. Jack clearly remembered what had happened, so even if he had a concussion, it wasn't like –

And hadn't he thought that before?

Mac turned back to the panel, really studying it. It was covered in dust, the plastic was aged. The screens had green glass, they were cathode ray tubes inset into the console, exactly like they should have been. The old analog keyboard was a mechanical one, with the hollow click of the space bar.

He could still smell the smoke in the hallway. Electrical. It made sense, he could have punctured the O2 pipe, inserted a negative wire from a circuit, and then flipped on the lightswitch from inside that file room.

Mac shook his head again, trying to clear it.

There was something wrong.

_Something besides a concussion, amnesia, and missiles about to kill a lot of innocent people?_

His head throbbed again, insistently, and Mac took his best guess. There were boats before there were planes, and 0 came before 7, so that was what he was going with.

Transponders were pretty cool devices. The AIS would handshake and give its position many times in any given sixty second timeframe. It only alerted the captain of the vessel if it received a code to do so, or collision was imminent. The military intercept wasn't necessary for that part, a NATO fleet would still want to avoid collisions, particularly one on a rescue mission.

Mac ran down a mental catalogue of NATO countries in Europe and the Middle East, and tried to surmise the most likely country to have deployed into the Med. Current NATO Strategic Commander for the region was French, the French had standardized transponders across their five major shipyards, so –

Mac keyed in the remainder of the codes for the handshake. Military intercept, fake coordinates off Cyprus, ship class type 01 –

And a little insurance. Just in case something really _was_ wrong with Jack.

"How's it coming?"

Mac send the command to the missile. "Well, now we wait. And hope that the radio on the missile is strong enough."

Jack returned to his shoulder, staring blankly at the screens. "How will we know?"

Good question. "Well, when the transponder gets a response, it'll show up here." He tapped the small green monitor that looked like it had an expanded tic-tac-toe grid. "If we get back coordinates somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, it worked."

"And that's not gonna show up in the main control room?"

Mac weighed the odds. "If they have this particular function up, yes. Otherwise, no." He paused. "It's a lot less noticeable than the main radio?"

Jack thought about that for a second. "So it's just openly broadcasting."

"Yep. Just like any other transponder."

Just like the transponder on a plane or helicopter. Which Jack knew damn well.

Jack heard the frustration in his voice. "I'm sensing a but."

Mac closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the next wave of pain. "But we're not actually sure the NATO fleet is the target. So we're going to have to generally chart every handshake we get, and modify the missile's trajectory based on where we think it's headed, dodging not just the NATO fleet, but everyone else."

And something told him the NLA wasn't going to be that patient with them. As soon as they realized his and Jack's bodies weren't out there in the rubble, they were going to come looking.

The green matrix flashed up a set of numbers.

"Jack, give me 41 degrees, 783 by 18 degrees, 415." That was simplified, but the map over the radio wasn't that great, and it would at least be the right ballpark.

His partner limped over to the map, tracing it out.

"Uh . . . fifty miles off the coast of Albania."

So in the water. But if he'd guessed that military intercept code wrong, he'd just gotten back a plane, not a ship.

The grid flashed up new coordinates, and he didn't even need to read them out. Also over water, the same body.

"So . . . it's going to give us the coordinates of every boat in range."

Mac nodded. "Yep. But I put in fake coordinates. The missile is telling everyone it's a boat, and it's midway between Athens and Cyprus, which is the most traveled route for Syrian refugees. The only responses we'll get via handshake will be within 60 nautical miles of the fake coordinates." Anything outside of that range was not considered a collision risk.

His partner made a strange noise. "And you just _happen_ to know those coordinates off the top of your head."

Mac couldn't help it. He smiled. "No, Jack, I looked them up on the map earlier."

His partner digested that. "And you just happened to know how to get a missile transponder to pretend to be a ship transponder?"

That . . . was a little harder to explain. ". . . Nikki wanted to take a month and sail from France to Italy. I did some research." Which had involved actual sailing lessons, finding the right boat to rent for the season, and a brush up on maritime law and procedures.

". . . oh."

Behind them, there was a distinct beep, and then the lock clicked.

Mac barely even had time to turn around, and Jack was cut down right in front of him.

He sat up with a shout.

It was dark. The only light was from a half moon coming in through the high windows. He was alone, propped up in his corner, and his back smarted from being jerked off the wall so roughly.

Mac blinked a few times, trying to catch his breath. He was –

Jack was –

There was a room, they were trapped, something about missiles . . . the details slipped through his mental fingers.

A dream.

A nightmare.

And he could only have a nightmare if he'd been asleep.

Mac eased himself back against the wall, laying his bound wrists ever so gently against his thighs. His head was throbbing. Bozer was there, in the opposite corner, under a thin little shaft of moonlight. It was pretty much the only way Mac could see him.

"Hey, at least you got to sleep for a little while," he pointed out, his tone optimistic. "That's something, right?"

Mac took another deep, slow breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and he swallowed down a coughing fit. _Yeah, Boze._

Just a nightmare.

-M-

So I nailed NaNoWriMo, in that I wrote way over the 50k word limit, and I'm pretty happy about that. You folks being so encouraging really helped.

Thank you!

After all the excitement of the last couple chapters, I understand this one might have been a little boring. It's pretty much all action from here on out. I don't plan on putting up any more content warnings, but please be advised things are about to get very violent.

Mainly because it looks like Mac might have finally figured out a way to call for help. Even if he doesn't remember doing it. [I promised you earlier I wouldn't separate hallucinations from explanations, but I just totally did, so . . . that's your hint, readers.]


	13. Chapter 13

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **NOTE** : For the purposes of clarity, any voices coming over cellphone microphones in the last section of this chapter are _in italics_ , so that readers can easily differentiate dialogue.

-M-

The recruit studied the slip of paper for a long moment.

"It's a . . . transponder handshake, sir." He started to hand it back, but the lieutenant didn't reach for it.

"And what does it say?"

The recruit stared at him a moment, as if trying to figure out if this was a test or not, and he looked back down at the chain of numbers. "Well, you've got a military intercept code here – 0000 – which means all transponders in range will return a handshake."

"All military ships?" The second lieutenant sounded skeptical.

"No sir," the recruit corrected himself quickly. "Any military ship on a covert mission won't respond to this code. This is just basic anti-collision. If you've got a ship steaming through the bay on a routine transfer to a different naval yard, it'll respond. A sub on a surveillance op wouldn't."

Kenan digested that. "What do the rest of the numbers mean?"

"Well, sir, the next chain is hard-coded coordinates of the transponder initiating the connection, which would typically be actual data from your ship's GPS, then you've identified yourself as a class 01, which is commercial, and the rest of this . . ." The recruit studied it a moment longer. "It's machine code listing the desired format of handshake response, it's . . . identifying itself as a particular brand of transponder, and it's providing a . . . manufacture date."

"And how certain are you?"

The recruit gave it one final glance, then brought his head up sharply and didn't refer to it again. "Absolutely, sir. I've been serving as com officer on the TCG Anamur for three years. But anyone familiar with ocean-faring ships could tell you this."

"Tell me, would a ship's response to this handshake create a log or alert?"

The recruit didn't hesitate. "Yes sir, a log would be created, but no alert. This is normal naval traffic chatter. There's no need to create an alert unless one of the transponders determined that there was a risk of collision, based on their coordinates and course."

Cenk tilted his head. "You didn't say there was course information in there."

"Oh, no sir. There isn't. Each ship will decide if there's a possible collision based on its own course. Course information isn't shared between transponders because it changes too frequently."

Kenan was quiet a moment. "So all ships would respond to this, not just military vessels."

"Yessir. There are several commercial shipping sites available to civilians that would let you easily determine which traffic was commercial shipping, and which traffic wasn't."

So they would be able to do a comparison of all the traffic, and eliminate the non-military ships.

The American had just given them a way to track the NATO fleet, in real time, without having to put a boat in the water, and the fleet would have absolutely no idea they were doing it.

Cenk accepted the slip of paper back, dismissing the recruit, and Kenan walked over to the library window, staring out over the courtyard. It was a gorgeous late summer morning, not a cloud in the sky, and he searched every shadow of every bit of the landscaping, more out of habit than anything else.

Behind him, the second lieutenant took a seat. "What do you think?"

He had a way with words that Kenan both loved and despised. "I think it's unbelievable."

He knew Cenk would take that as literally as he'd meant it. It was actually beyond the realm of belief that their American could possibly know the breadth of subjects that he seemed to know.

"And now you see why I like him."

Kenan didn't turn from the sun. Instead, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth on his skin. "He knows the manufacturer codes of military grade security systems, and also ships?" The lieutenant clicked his front teeth together thoughtfully, then sighed. "We gave him radar and radio, and instead of using either he modified an aircraft transponder to pretend to be a ship transponder."

"He made a bomb out of a blanket."

Smoke bombs hardly counted. "He's an explosives expert. That is within his realm of expertise."

The second lieutenant chuckled. "I think our American has more than one of those. And as an added bonus, if we use aircraft transponders, we can get everything we need in the air. They'll be looking for a boat, not a helo. Even if they do notice it, they won't be able to pinpoint our location. Or, we can use it to lead them wherever we like. It's simple, elegant, and effective."

Behind him, Kenan heard something heavy thunk onto wood.

"Which is not unlike a bomb, when you think about it. Either way, what are you going to do?"

And that was the question.

He had either handed them the ability to track the NATO fleet – with the caveat that it wasn't operating covertly – or he had give them something that would reveal them to their enemies.

"I'm going to run it by any other naval experts we have. If everyone agrees, I see no reason not to execute."

The second lieutenant was silent.

"Have we heard from Zhan?"

"Heard is relative. That guy's basically monosyllabic on the phone."

Kenan very deliberately didn't respond, and Cenk sighed. "Yes. He's recording the Americans' movements and we have images of all of them. They've improved their security posture somewhat in response to the destruction of their cannery, but he doesn't believe he needs any backup at this point."

Of course he didn't. "The major is very effective."

"I'm well aware," Cenk retorted, and Kenan belatedly recalled their first interaction. Words had been exchanged. Also a bullet. It appeared the second lieutenant had not forgotten that lesson.

"Anything from Liris?"

Cenk gusted out a sigh. "She's gained access to their internal network, so we have some ears inside the safehouse, but she's treading lightly to avoid detection. The last I heard, she's still digging into this Phoenix Foundation. Best guess is a spin-off from the CIA. Some type of covert operations. There's nothing to indicate they're any more dangerous than any other US intelligence agency."

And that brought him right back to their American.

The library door opened, and Kenan stood with his eyes still closed, listening. After three steps, he was certain.

"Sergeant."

The footfalls stopped, just inside the closing door. "Yessir."

Someone was going to have teach that man that he didn't bite. "Report."

"There's no indication that the American remembers anything. It went well." The sergeant paused, but then couldn't help himself. "I think we were much closer with 'Jack' this time."

The second lieutenant coughed.

There was nothing wrong with a reputation of not having a sense of humor, Kenan reminded himself. Except it cast a shadow on his ability to believably perform covert operations. "You sound surprised."

"No sir. I gave you sufficient coaching this time."

Cenk sounded like he was chewing on his sleeve.

Time to change the subject. "I need something else from him." Regretfully, he opened his eyes and turned, finding Hakan exactly where he expected him, and Cenk with his feet up on the colonel's desk.

Some men just couldn't quite grasp discipline.

"There's to be a State dinner in three days' time. The colonel feels it's an opportunity to remind Erdogan of our reach."

The sergeant decided that was directed at him. " . . . and you're thinking the appetizers should really pop?"

Kenan just looked at him.

Hakan gave that due consideration. "If I might make a suggestion?"

The lieutenant inclined his head.

"The American will never build us a bomb. He values other lives above his own. Even if we threatened to kill a civilian if he refused, he would still see that as one life versus many." He shook his head. "I think we would have more luck asking a recruit to propose a bomb design, and let the American disarm it."

The negative of what they needed.

That had merit.

But Cenk shook his head. "Wouldn't he just intentionally detonate it?"

"Not a real bomb. A training one." Hakan shrugged. "I'm sure there's a way to manufacture a bomb that doesn't have much power. Just enough to make him think it's real. Use a child, he's very unsettled that we killed Chevalier's daughter. He'll disarm the bomb to save the child, and then we can ask the designer to ensure that it will detonate if anyone attempts to disarm it the way the American does."

Assuming the bomb was discovered, it would be fairly alarming if Erdogan's experts detonated it instead of disarming it. That would appeal to the colonel.

Kenan nodded. "Do we have any recruits with children?"

Cenk looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ". . . I believe we do. Actually, doesn't Eren have a son?"

Hakan nodded, from his parade rest by the door. "I think I have seen a picture."

"Very good. See if his son is willing to help us frighten our enemy."

-M-

**ROUGHLY 24 HOURS LATER**

"Look, I'm just saying, it's the greatest film of our time."

Ethan keyed in the new coordinates, giving the con a firm nod, and tried very hard to ignore his neighbor.

"It has everything. Violence, sex, profanity . . . hilarity . . ."

"You just described the Fifth Element."

Ensign Gabin Durand gave him a shocked look. "I said 'of our time.' Our time was not the nineties."

Ethan gave his colleague a sideways look, trying to keep his voice at a reasonable volume. "Oh, you're a twelve year old? That explains . . ." He let it trail off, but stroked his chin suggestively, and Durand bristled.

"I know you didn't just play the millennial card."

Ethan shrugged, his attention momentarily attracted by a flashing line of code.

For once, it wasn't an IM, or a notification from their glorified VAX. It was legitimately an alert, and Ensign Ethan Meunier arrowed down to the flashing line of text and hit enter.

He stared at it for a minute, then scooted his chair back, bending nearly in half to access the shelf below his workstation.

It took him a second, but he came up with the right manual, and he moved his coffee, opening the binder. Table of Contents . . . Diagnostic Codes.

Ethan flipped to the correct section, and Durand glanced over curiously. "What's up?"

He trailed a forefinger down the page. 010212.

It wasn't there. There was a 01005 and a 010200, but neither of those matched. The first one was "Rear Sensor Alert" and the second was a "Memory Dump."

He flipped back to the appendix, but everyone knew that was useless, and he finally closed the binder, and flagged down the chief.

"Sir!"

The first mate of the HNoMS Otto Sverdrup wandered over from across the ship's bridge, and Ensign Ethan Meunier pointed to the screen. "Our primary transponder kicked back a . . . I think it's a diagnostic code, sir. It's not in the manual."

The chief stared at the screen a moment. "Is it still working?"

Ethan pulled up the transponder logs, noting there were several with timestamps after the code had popped up. "Seems to be, sir."

"Just the once?"

The ensign checked the log. "Yessir."

"Probably a fart. If it happens again, reboot the systems."

"Yessir."

The first mate wandered off, walking the deck of the NATO destroyer like he owned it. He didn't seem all that keyed up, and the ensign acknowledged the alert, typing his initials into the log. They were sailing in the middle of the Sea of Marmara, and their transponder had been cranking overtime with all the commercial naval traffic. The chief was probably right.

Just a fart.

And speaking of farts . . .

"At least the Fifth Element could get by without fart jokes."

"You're just clinging to that because Bruce Willis still had hair."

Ethan turned and gave Durand a long look. "So you've seen it then."

"Of course I've seen it. It's been on television a million times."

"And you watch _old_ classics like that?"

Durand wound up to let him have it, but the red phone at his workstation rang, and Ethan was spared another sanctimonious millennial rant as he picked up the handset.

"Otto Sverdrup _,_ com."

"Charlottetown, com. Requesting check on transponder."

Ethan blinked, then pulled up a window, pinning the handset against his shoulder so he didn't have to hold it. "Executing check."

He manually pinged the HMCS Charlottetown _,_ waiting for the response. GPS coordinates came back, and he glanced at his colleague.

"Requesting location check on fleet, HMCS Charlottetown."

Durand didn't hesitate, typing into his own system. ". . . GPS coordinates confirmed."

Ethan spoke back into the phone, still pinned on his shoulder. "Transponder check confirmed, GPS good."

"Acknowledged." Whoever the com officer on that ship was, he hesitated. "We got an unlisted diagnostic code. I'll disregard."

"Wait." Ethan windowed back over to his log. "Was it 010212?"

There was a brief pause on the line, and he heard only static.

"Confirmed. How did you . . .-"

Ethan frowned. "Same here. I'll call it in to the Helpdesk."

"Acknowledged."

-M-

There was a quick rap on the door, like a hummingbird had bounced off it by mistake, and Matty looked up from the tablet. Of course it was an analyst, not a one of them knew how to knock on a door like they meant it –

It was Li-z. Liz. Not Lisa. Matty nodded, and eventually the analyst got the message and pushed the door open.

She also had a tablet, and this time she didn't ask. She crossed the office rapidly, her expression tightly controlled, and she offered it for once without having to be asked.

Matty accepted it, setting her own device down on the desk, and she stared at the flashing red rectangle. The only thing she gleaned was the acronym NATO and a bunch of numbers.

". . . why do I care about this?"

Liz gave an excited little wiggle. "You asked me to monitor any traffic specific to the NATO 16th Division operating out of the Sea of Marmara."

Matty glanced at the alert again. NATO ship, bunch of numbers. The text said it was a troubleshooting ticket to some French manufacturer, related to a diagnostic code. Looked like a date, back from 2012.

Matty paused.

That wasn't a date.

Phoenix had a set of codes, much like the CIA and she presumed most other clandestine agencies, that agents could use to signal covertly. Most of them looked like dates.

But this . . . this was one she didn't recognize. "What is 010212?"

Liz licked her lip. "It's an older DXS code. Agent in distress."

Matty read the text more closely. Two NATO ships had received the same diagnostic code, off their transponders.

After all this time, had he finally . . . ?

She very carefully didn't mirror her analyst's hopeful look. "Took him long enough," she growled. "Can you tell me where this signal originated?"

The analyst balked. "Uh, well, we could compare the timestamps and determine an area where the signal might have originated, but it's quite a bit of real estate-"

Matty looked at her expectantly. Liz blinked at her.

"Do it already," she snapped impatiently, and the analyst retrieved her tablet and scurried from the office.

-M-

A tan, early 2000 model Mercedes-Benz pulled away from the back entrance of the villa, and Zhan picked out two silhouettes. Both appeared male, but he wasn't able to make out faces through the windshield glare. They hung a left, proceeding towards the motorway.

He watched the safehouse a moment, waiting for other activity, and made a note in the log.

"Two Americans just left the villa. Can you track them?"

The radio in his right ear was silent for a time. "No. All phones are stationary."

Hmm. If they left without phones, that meant they had coms. "Have you accessed com traffic yet?"

More silence. "What is the approximate duration of this operation?"

Zhan took a sip of tea and contemplated that question. Clearly the answer was no, she hadn't, and yes, she could, but it would risk detection.

"No more than an additional twenty-four hours." Now that they knew who they were dealing with, all they needed to establish was how much information the Americans had, destroy it if possible, and eliminate the agents.

"Very well."

The earbud in his left ear crackled, and Zhan adjusted the volume up a little.

"- _ny luck on those files_?"

" _Some_." It was the younger female agent, Riley. She was the team's tech expert, and had been making life very difficult for Liris. " _Jack's buddy here is a real badass. Graduated top of class from the Turkish Military Academy. Third generation officer. Received a medal for valor in Operation Dawn and was recognized for his role in gathering intelligence during the Hakkari clashes in 2012."_

Zhan finished his tea with a sigh.

" _What about his team_?"

There was a long pause. " _That's it_."

The young American didn't elaborate, and Zhan obviously couldn't see what she was referring to, but the disappointment in her tone was enough.

The Americans had identified Kenan, but not the rest of them. Not yet.

Zhan was fairly certain he knew who to thank for that. "Liris-"

"You're welcome."

He almost smiled. "Are you certain you've expunged all the records?"

"All of our digital copies." He heard keys clicking. "There are certainly paper copies in the vaults."

No matter. The Americans wouldn't be alive long enough to request them. Zhan concentrated back on his left ear.

"- _h yeah. Someone is definitely protecting these guys_."

" _You think they have someone on the inside at Turkish intelligence_?"

The other female's voice was accented, British or Australian, and deeper. They called her Cage. She appeared to be the agent in charge.

" _Or military intelligence. Look – all these files were indexed last week, and now they've magically disappeared. And they used good UN credentials to access Camp Bondsteel. This is beyond what Count Dooku could arrange. They've got other inside help._ "

Zhan flipped to the code section of his notebook, and entered the name. Count Dooku.

"Liris, can you do a lookup?"

The radio in his right ear clicked as Liris took herself off mute. "I don't need to."

Zhan waited, but she didn't say anything else.

"And?"

"And he's a character from Star Wars."

He thought about that a moment, and Liris gave a delicate snort. "Let me guess. You've never watched it."

"Some of us work for a living." He knew well that she was in fact _at_ work, which is why she had him on mute most of the time, and why she occasionally jabbered nonsense at him.

"I'll be sure to let the lieutenant know about the lapse in training. Count Dooku is a high level traitor. He's trained by the Jedi, but willingly joins their enemy to further his desire for power."

Meaning 'Count Dooku' could be a codename for their insider in the US State Department.

That would be a very expensive pawn to lose. "Have you gained access to their larger network yet?"

Liris was quiet for a few moments. "No. She's very careful. When you enter the safehouse, I'll need you to give me physical access to her system via one of the USB sticks in your kit."

Zhan set down the binoculars and climbed to his feet, walking over to the second lounge chair. He flipped open the top flap of the messenger bag there, unzipping the long, flat pocket on the inside of it. There were three silver USB drives, each with an additional bulge at one end, and he transferred two of them to one of the front pockets of his tactical vest.

" _Speaking of Dooku, he's moved your date_."

" _To_ w _hen_?"

" _Thursday night. Looks like he's going to fly you out to Thessaloniki for a long weekend. Picked up a couple tickets to the opera_."

Thessaloniki was a city in Greece.

"Liris, is our asset at the State Department traveling this week?"

Zhan returned to his lounge chair and picked up the binoculars, sighting on the upper story window he had determined was their main communications room. The gauzy curtains were always drawn, but the sea breeze was quite helpful in that regard. He could make out the silhouettes of both of the women.

". . . no."

It would be very difficult for 'Cage' to go on a date with him in Greece if he was still in the United States. In that case, 'Dooku' might simply be a mispronunciation of a very different asset. A much more critical one.

"I need our Greek benefactor's schedule."

" _Well, I'll hate to disappoint him._ "

Riley made a very unladylike sound.

Liris was much more composed. "Should I notify the colonel?"

Zhan shook his head, briefly forgetting that she couldn't see him. "Get confirmation first. But notify the lieutenant of the possibility."

If General Doukas had been compromised, they had a much bigger problem. He had detailed knowledge of the recruitment efforts, their staging properties, and transport and logistics. If the Americans had even part of that information, it would set back the colonel's efforts by months. And it was only a matter of time before they turned over any intelligence to Erdogan.

In fact, the only reason they hadn't was likely due to the fact that they had yet to recover their missing agent.

Zhan pulled the radio out of his right ear, replacing it with his phone. It rang twice.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Cenk didn't even attempt to make it sound sincere.

"I need proof of life of the American."

That seemed to get his attention. "A photo or a finger?"

"A video will do for now."

If the search for their agent was indeed the only thing preventing them from sharing the intelligence they'd gathered, they might need reassurance that he was still alive. At least until Liris could infiltrate their systems and destroy any evidence.

"How soon?"

Zhan glanced back at the villa. He'd prefer to take them all at once, but there was no way to know when the two Americans that had left would return. Wherever they were going, it wasn't part of their usual routine.

"Soon."

He hung up the phone and replaced his radio. "Can you give me physical locations on the agents inside the safehouse?"

A pop. "Generally. I can give you floors and rooms."

Good enough. He glanced at his rifle, which was leaning against the near wall, exactly where he'd left it, and then he opened up his laptop to pull the weather report.

Cage had said she was going to hate disappointing Count Dooku. Which insinuated that she thought she would not be available on Thursday.

"Liris, circulate our surveillance photos of the American agents to the recruitment centers."

Just in case.

-M-

Riley glanced up, and smiled in genuine pleasure as Jack stumped across the room, carrying her insulated glass.

". . . thanks," she said gratefully, and downed a quarter of the spiced tea before coming up for air.

Jack was watching her with an amused look. "Boze said you liked that stuff."

"Don't you? What was not to like?" It was a delicious blend of cinnamon, sugar, tea, and some other spices that made it somehow not taste like a pie. And she was positive it was loaded with caffeine.

"Little sweet for me." He crossed his arms, staring at the wall of monitors, and she took another pull on the rigid plastic straw before she set the cup down on the carpet and picked her keyboard back up.

"You just missed Cage. I've got a little more background on your lieutenant."

His expression didn't really change as he glanced over the info. "Intelligence gathering, huh?"

Riley was pretty sure that was the Turkish label for what Samantha Cage had been doing for the SAS.

Interrogation.

"I can't find anything else on his team. Someone's covering their tracks pretty well."

"Really? Even from you?" Jack gave her a teasing little grin. "Well, now, that _is_ impressive."

She rolled her eyes. "Jack, keep in mind I'm hacking systems written in a language I don't speak."

"Konusabiliyourim."

She toggled over to a window, where voice recognition software had already translated it. _I can speak it._

"Yeah, call me a wuss but I'm not too interested in taking the two week crash course in Turkish you just had."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm gonna have to give it one star." He nodded to the map of Greece and Turkey that was now permanently displayed on two of the monitors. There was a blinking yellow dot crawling slowly across the screen. "Those our boys?"

Riley nodded. "They're about four hours out."

He glanced at his watch, marking the time. "You had a second to check into that other thing?"

Riley stretched, leaning back in the chair and checking the door. No sign of Cage.

"If by 'that other thing' you mean magically track down three people with no phones, no wearable tech, no home address, who drive an unmarked produce truck that was manufactured in the 80s? That other thing?"

Jack grinned. "See, I told ya' it'd be easy."

Riley gave him a long look. "No, Jack. I haven't." She popped up a few windows, showing traffic driving by in different intersections. "I've got eyes out for the truck, but this is Europe. Those are like the Greek equivalent of Toyota Corollas."

He nodded. "I know, Ri. Just see what you can do."

She hesitated a second. "You . . . uh, seem pretty determined to help these people."

He watched the intersections for a little while. "Yeah, well, they saved my life." Then he glanced down at her, looking more like himself than he had since they'd gotten him back. Less guarded. His eyes were dark and thoughtful. "That means something."

"I know. I know," she agreed quickly. She'd read the debrief he'd sent to the Phoenix, she knew that the gypsies had seen the flare, and had gotten to him in time. Not that she wasn't sure he would have been better off being found by the Turkish army instead. "I'll keep looking."

He offered her his right fist, and she gave him a little bump.

"Thanks."

The system chimed, and she toggled over to her security dashboard. It was a sea of green, save one yellow warning flag, and she selected it, then frowned.

"What's up?"

Riley brought up the firewall, looking at the logs themselves.

There it was. Four incorrect login attempts a minute– and the system would alert on five – over and over again, for the last several hours.

Until the last one, where a fifth attempt had happened just a fraction of a second too soon.

The login errors were coming from an inside IP address.

Riley discarded the keyboard for her laptop, logging into the router. The IP that was trying to break through her firewall was assigned to Micah's phone. She pinged it, and it responded, which meant it was on and working.

Riley tapped her com. "Agent Tunstall?"

There was a brief pause. "It's Micah, Agent Davis."

She shook her head a little. "Yeah, sorry Micah. What are you doing?"

The agent chuckled, and then she heard a toilet flush in the background. ". . . so, what can I do for you?"

Well, the bathroom was a common place to play with a smartphone. "Do you have your phone on you?"

". . . no. I think it's downstairs on the charger. Why?"

Jack started to move towards the door, and she scrambled to her feet, almost knocking over her insulated glass. "Jack, don't worry about it. I got it."

The look he gave her told her that he knew exactly why she'd just volunteered to get the phone. "I ain't gonna break, Riles. I can handle a few stairs."

"Pretty sure the doc said stairs were a no-no." She felt a brief stab of guilt for having taken the cane away, but she was half convinced he'd been poking her with it nonstop just so that he'd have an excuse not to use it.

He grumbled something under his breath but she breezed right past him, around the corner and down the stairs. The chargers were all in the parlor, and her bare feet made little noise on the tile. McMurtrie was sprawled on the high-backed couch, fast asleep, and she crept across the greek throw rug, to the ornate pastry table they were using as a charge pad.

They'd all been issued phones for the op, and Micah's was the metallic silver one. She unlocked it with her fingerprint and accessed the phone's memory.

There were a couple applications running. Nothing weird. No games, he'd followed her instructions to the letter. No services running she didn't recognize.

Behind her, she heard Troy shift, and Riley cringed and glanced over her shoulder. He was still asleep; the quiet clicking on the phone hadn't been quite enough to wake him. As softly as she could, she snuck back out of the parlor, shutting the double doors soundlessly behind her.

Riley went back up the stairs, not surprised to find Jack waiting for her at the top of them, and she shrugged at him.

He was frowning. "You got that look."

"And what look would that be?" She carried the phone back to her armchair, retrieving her keyboard.

"The look you get right before we lose satellite connection."

Riley blinked. That was . . . oddly specific. Had she really been working at the Phoenix so long that she had a 'this shit is about to break' expression?

And was it?

With the phone in her hand, and the firewall logs up, the login attempts had stopped. She locked the phone, waiting to see if whatever malware was on it would start up again, but nothing happened.

Huh.

Riley set the alerts down to three a minute, and unlocked the phone. A quick check for a rootkit came up clean, so she initiated a factory reset.

"Is there a problem?"

Riley glanced past Jack, noting Cage was back in the Lady King's nonexistent silk robe, freshly showered. "Uh, I don't know," she admitted, glancing back at the log.

The agents took their phones out with them on their various duties. It was possible Micah's had gotten hacked, he was out almost as much as Saito. And there was no other indication that they'd gotten penetrated from the outside.

Riley studied the dashboard for another second, but everything else looked good. It occurred to her she'd been quiet too long. "I'm going to clean all our phones, just to be sure."

The other agent nodded, giving Jack a hard look, and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Don't look at me. I don't even _have_ a phone."

Cage regarded him a moment, then transferred her attention back to Riley. "If you see anything that doesn't feel right –"

Riley nodded. "Yeah. I'll let you know."

-M-

His body jerked him awake, and Mac opened his eyes just in time to see the first man enter the room. There was more light than usual, he noticed blearily, as the second of the pair entered. It was later in the morning than they normally came for him.

They'd let him sleep.

Mac didn't move as they approached. They all had the routine down pat by now. A black hood was shoved over his head, then his feet were kicked out in front of him so they could grab his arms. He laced his fingers around the middle of the ties to help prevent his wrists from taking any more stress than they had to, and then he was roughly hauled to his feet.

Across the cell. Out the door. Twenty two steps around a curving hallway, to the right, down seventeen stairs, three steps across the landing, down seventeen more stairs. To the right, twenty steps. Left, down the grand staircase. Le-

Only this time, he was pulled to the right.

Mac stumbled along, unable to see where he was going, and the wood floors became flagstone beneath his bare feet. The same as the other wing of the house. He counted the steps as he was taken quite far down the wing, before they yanked him to his left. The room wasn't any more chilly than the hallway they'd just exited.

The hood was snatched off, and Mac squinted in the bright morning light.

He was in a corner room. Large garden windows covered two walls, showing him a neat courtyard with well-tended landscaping. A large military jeep was parked on the front drive, and a bulky Turk stood beside it in full combat gear, hands resting on the rifle slung over his shoulder. He was staring at Mac intently through the window.

The room itself was empty, save a large, ornate wooden table. Upon the table was a canvas roll, which had been laid open. He saw sets of pliers, wire strippers, a gas torch, screwdrivers, tweezers –

It was an IED/EOD toolkit.

He was spun, now facing the door, and one of the soldiers inserted the flat metal 'key' into his restraints, releasing them.

The second one hit him with a right cross that put him on his back.

Mac lay stunned a moment, blinking the spots from his eyes, and when his vision started to clear, he saw that his shadow had entered the room. The Turk stared down at him impassively, and Mac slowly sat up, gingerly inspecting his face.

No blood this time.

"Get up."

"Oh, I got a bad feeling about this," Jack muttered from the nearest wall, and Mac didn't bother to reply, doing what he was told. He noticed a camera, mounted in the corner of the room above the door, with a red LED. Active.

Once he was on his feet, the Turkish interrogator gave him a measuring look. "You recognize the tools behind you?"

Mac just watched him, warily.

"By now you've determined that you are far from the city. In areas like this, the schools are sometimes not so scrutinized. The teachers here occasionally risk bringing their own books, expanding beyond the approved curriculum."

There was motion and noise, from the hallway. Several people approaching.

"When this happens, and Erdogan hears of it, this is the message he sends to the teacher."

The party in the hallway continued to approach, and then Mac's shadow stepped towards him. Mac automatically took several steps back.

Another soldier came into the room, and behind him –

A little brown-haired boy, perhaps eleven years old. He was dressed for school, wearing sand-colored pants and a faded navy shirt that was clearly part of a uniform. His forest green backpack looked a little big for him, and a little heavy, and his hands were curled into tight fists at his sides. He was staring at the ground, and didn't look up, coming to a stop obediently when the soldier did.

The soldier left the boy just inside the door, and his shadow stared at him. Mac stared back.

"You have an opportunity to save his life, American. Or, to take both his and your own."

Then the interrogator turned on his heels, and crossed behind the silent boy to the hallway. He closed the door behind him, and Mac clearly heard it lock.

The little boy flinched a little at the sound, but he didn't otherwise respond. He just stood there, head down, fists clenched.

Mac held out his hands, showing that he had nothing in them. He was probably not the prettiest or most reassuring sight to a scared little kid right now, but he did the best he could.

"Hi. Can you understand me?"

The little boy shifted his weight from one foot to another, but he didn't say a word.

Okay. No English.

"Mac-"

He didn't need Jack to tell him. It was pretty clear exactly what was going on here.

"I'm going to come take a look at you, okay?" Even if the kid couldn't understand the words, at least he could hear the tone and the lilt of a question. Mac took a slow step forward, and the kid didn't bolt, so he circled the little boy unhurriedly, getting a look.

The backpack didn't give away much. There was a lot of weight at the bottom, and two green wires, nearly the same color as the backpack, running out of the main pouch and up the shoulder straps.

Mac circled back around to the front of the boy, noticing for the first time that the wires left the shoulderstraps and disappeared into tiny holes in the boy's shirt, even with his collarbone.

So if the kid tried to take the backpack off, and the wires under his shirt lost connection, the bomb would detonate.

Mac crouched down in front of the boy. His eyes were open, but not too wide. Not panicked. He wouldn't look at him, but he didn't seem terrified. It was more like . . . resigned.

"Hi," he tried again. "I'm Mac. What's your name?"

The boy's eyes shifted. He didn't seem to know where to look.

"Mac," he tried again, touching his chest. Then he pointed to the boy, still keeping his distance.

The little boy chewed nervously on his lower lip. " . . . Berat."

Mac smiled. "Berat. Nice to meet you."

The little boy – Berat – shuffled his feet.

Getting the backpack off him was too risky without seeing what was inside. If the kid flinched, or tried to run, that was going to be it. Mac stayed in his crouch, ignoring the way it made his thighs burn. He'd been in a position much like this one, most of yesterday. "Hey, Berat, can you come over here?"

He straightened as slowly as he could, gesturing, and the little boy looked up a fraction of an inch. Mac pointed to the table, where the tools were readily visible, and little boy glanced at it furtively, then back at the ground.

"It's okay. You'll be fine."

"Yeah, since apparently a nice ride in a Jeep down a country road wasn't a big deal," Jack observed. "Mac, don't you think this is a little –"

"Yes I do," he said aloud, his voice still coaxing. "Come on, Berat."

The little boy hesitated, but then he tentatively started for the table, and Mac walked alongside him reassuringly. Berat stopped when he came to the table, not quite sure what to do, and Mac bent down until he could see the kid's eyes, and smiled at him again.

"That's good,. Berat. Can you just stay here like this?" He made what he hoped was a universal 'stay' gesture, and from the wall, Jack woofed.

Mac graced his partner with a glare. _What the hell is wrong with you?_

Jack had his arms crossed over his chest, one foot braced against the wall, and his face was a mass of skepticism. "That was for you, Mac. You're being such a good little dog."

Mac refocused on the backpack, examining the zippers. Hallucination Jack had a point. After weeks of torture, letting him actually get a little bit of sleep, and then leaving him untied in a room full of tools - and explosives - was a little hard to swallow.

"They're playing you, man."

The green wires were inserted through the loop in the zipper mechanism, and Mac did a quick inventory of tools, rearranging them into his preferred order. Then he selected a pair of scissors.

It occurred to him that he could just as easily use them to cut himself, potentially fatally, and he was sure his shadow hadn't overlooked that possibility. He'd said he could save a life, or take both his and the boy's. Would they not even attempt to disarm the bomb, if he tried to kill himself?

Mac glanced at the window, noticing that the Turk hadn't moved from his station by the Jeep. Still staring right at him.

And he was wearing several methods of disposing of unexploded ordinance.

Mac used the scissors to carefully make a small incision in the knapsack fabric, and then to hold down the flap of fabric he'd cut, peering inside.

He could make out the explosive – two bricks, and a faint vinyl odor, some type of plasticized RDX – with wires leading out from the detonators. Each backpack strap had been individually run to both detonators. The rest of the device was against the boy's back, but it didn't appear that the front of the knapsack was involved, so he continued cutting until he had a large enough hole to work with.

Mac grabbed a small dental mirror off the table, and used it to ease the bomb a little off the back side of the backpack. Berat flinched a little when he felt the mirror push against him.

"Hey, it's cool, that's just me," Mac said soothingly, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands.

Fatigue. He wasn't going to be able to pull caps out of explosives with his hands like they were.

Luckily, it was a fairly simple device. A timer had been primed but not triggered, he could assume that would happen when the backpack was taken off. No idea how much time would be on it before it blew, but probably only a few seconds – not enough time for a teacher or custodian to realize the backpack contained something dangerous. The power supply was a pair of cellphone batteries, wired up to a basic silicone board that completed the circuits.

Yet there were three identical yellow wires each connecting into the bricks of explosive, and he couldn't see what the hell the extra pair of wires was for. Not without picking up the bomb.

Mac sighed, and then he had to straighten up – his thighs and back were too weak to keep supporting his bent posture. Berat jumped a little, and Mac leaned on the table, looking over the tools again.

"It's okay. I'm just old," he tried by way of explanation. Berat had picked up his head a little, also looking at the tools, and Mac gave him a reassuring grin and started selecting them.

"Wirestrippers," he said, and demonstrated, clicking the tool closed. "Very useful for removing insulation."

And getting a look at what was inside those yellow wires.

"Wire cutters. Don't use these until you know what you're cutting." He grabbed a second pair for good measure.

"Okay. I'm going to make some noise in there. You stay."

Berat gave him a very wide-eyed look, trying to watch him without moving his head.

Mac gave him a nod. "That'll work."

Back inside the backpack, nothing much had changed. The yellow wires were quite thin, and Mac went high on the diameter of the wirestripper, just in case. They were simple braided aluminum.

Power.

Mac stuffed a hand down into the bag, more certain now, and eased his fingertips under the explosive bricks. At first he found nothing, then he brushed up against something harder and smoother than the RDX, inserted flush into the explosive. He tried to bury a fingernail into it, but it was solid.

A second set of phone batteries. Dual power source.

It reminded him uncomfortably of the Ghost. Not clever enough, but certainly clever. The third wire completed a circuit. So if you disconnected one of the power sources from the detonator, the other would trigger the explosion. And if you cut one of the power supplies and the circuit wire, you'd get the same result. Cutting all six simultaneously would require the precision of a bomb disposal robot.

Mac traced the wires back to the two sets of power supplies, determined which one was used for completing the circuit, and singled it out. Then he grabbed both pairs of wire cutters, and carefully inserted both his hands into the backpack.

No human was capable of cutting two wires at precisely the same time. And in this case, he needed to cut four. If both the power supplies were disconnected, the bomb couldn't detonate. He had to do it fast enough that the board, attached to the two circuit wires, couldn't detect the circuit had been broken and trigger either of the power supplies before they were fully disconnected.

Leaving the circuit wire intact gave him the tiniest fraction of a second longer to pull it off.

Mac straightened up, rolling his shoulders to relax those muscles for a moment, his hands still inside the backpack. Berat shifted again, and the backpack shifted with him.

That was _definitely_ something the kid couldn't do while he was cutting.

"Okay, Berat. This is it." He cocked his head to the side, trying to catch the boy's eye. "On the count of three, I need you to be really still. _Stay_. Okay?"

"Mac, you are teaching these guys how to disarm a bomb," Jack tried again, from the wall. He was staring up at the camera in the corner. "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

_Do I really have a choice here?_

The odor of vinyl was a dead giveaway. Even if the explosives weren't solid RDX, there was definitely some. He couldn't exactly try to remove the blasting caps from the explosive to see if they were big enough to trigger an explosion. Not with his hands shaking like they were. And the power supplies were certainly adequate for this size and type of explosive.

Also, he was being watched not only on camera, but through the window. It wasn't like he could strip some explosive and a cellphone battery and put it in his pocket for later. RDX was pretty stable. Depending on what it had been plasticized with, even shooting it might not be enough to set it off.

Jack sighed. "You could do nothing."

Yes. He could do nothing, and assume that the interrogator had lied to him. That the bomb wasn't real, and it had been built as some sort of test or tutorial. After all, the boy was fairly calm, all things considered. Only his little fists gave away his unease. And there were no wires running into his hands, there was no dead man's switch that he hadn't noticed.

Worst case scenario, he was teaching them how to disarm an already solid design. If they could already assemble bombs like this one, the only life he was endangering was –

Was his own. Was the EOD technician who was going to have to dispose of it.

. . . and that EOD tech, if he was any good at his job, was going to have the same questions about those yellow wires.

Mac hesitated, relaxing his hands for a moment. Either the bomb was real, and he was saving a life, or the bomb was a fake, and he was helping them take one.

That was an easy decision. An adult could make an informed, logical choice. Berat here couldn't.

Mac didn't look back at the wall, but he heard Jack run his hand over his face. ". . . alright, dude. Alright."

He carefully positioned the two wirecutters over the appropriate wires, making sure – or as sure as he could – that he had the same amount of tension on each pair.

"Okay, Berat. Stay still, okay? Stay." Then he closed his eyes, and just like Pena had taught them, he mentally summoned the Bee Gees. He let a few measures of music go by in his brain, until the rhythm was stable in his head, and then he opened his eyes.

"Here we go. On the count of three. One . . ."

Two coincided with the downbeat, and he squeezed. Not hard, using only the tips of his thumbs and forefingers to precisely apply pressure in a rapid, even slice.

Nothing else happened.

Mac removed his hands from the backpack, visually checking his work, and then he straightened, and laid the two pairs of wire cutters on the table.

"All done." He smiled at the boy, who still seemed too afraid to lift his head, and then Mac reached for his shirt. Berat balked, backing up a step, and Mac again held out his hands, showing they were empty.

"It's okay. We can take it off now." He gestured at the bag. Berat's head was finally up, and his entire face told Mac more clearly than Turkish ever could that he clearly didn't believe him.

No matter how stable RDX was, he wasn't about to wrestle with an 11 year old wearing two bricks of it. Mac raised his face to the camera.

"I'm done," he said loudly.

Berat kept watching him, a little warily, and Mac slouched against the table. Sooner or later they'd get the message. Behind Berat, Jack was nodding away to the music. When he caught Mac watching him, he shrugged.

"It's not Salt-N-Pepa, but damn, it sure is a classic."

_Yeah, I thought you'd like that._

The lock on the door clunked, making Berat jump, and the door opened. Mac was surprised when the first man through the door was the medic.

He said something in Turkish that had Berat turning, and then he gestured for the boy to come to him. Berat obeyed him, and the medic took the boy's face in his hands, checking him over. Then the soldier dropped his hands on the backpack straps, and looked up towards Mac.

MacGyver met his eyes, and then nodded.

"Well, I hope you care as much for little Turkish children as you do American," the medic murmured, and then he eased the backpack straps off the boy.

The wires that had been joined on the inside of the boy's shirt pulled apart easily, as they had been designed to, and then the boy was slithering out from beneath it. He took off at a dead run from the room, leaving the medic holding the backpack, and the soldier turned his head and watched him go with a wry expression.

He said one word, in a tone that Mac had heard a thousand times.

_Kids._

His shadow was the second man into the room, and he looked at the medic, who was still holding the backpack like he thought it was going to explode. They exchanged some rapid-fire Turkish, and then the medic set the backpack down on the floor.

His shadow turned to him. "I was not sure you would choose to stay with us."

Mac shrugged. "Well I guess that's the difference between us. I don't murder kids."

His shadow smiled coldly. "An inventory of the tools and supplies will be performed. Now that you know this, tell me: have you taken anything?"

He held the Turk's gaze steadily. "No."

The interrogator nodded slowly. "And you recall the punishment for lies?"

He didn't blink. ". . . yes."

The interrogator snapped his fingers, and the same two soldiers who'd woken him up came in from the hallway. They were just as careful as they'd been earlier – which was not at all – and Mac couldn't smother a hiss of pain as they tightened the zipties. The medic glanced over, and Mac knew he saw the blood start to trickle down his arm, but he said nothing, and then the hood went back over his head, and Mac was dragged from the room.

They could do an inventory of those tools all they wanted. Unless someone unrolled the entire coil of solder and measured it, they were never going to realize he'd just buried an inch and a half length of it flat against the wounds on his left wrist.

Just long enough to act as a key for the zipties.

The hood wasn't thick enough to block out sound – that wasn't its purpose – and even as they led him away, he could still hear Jack singing softly from the corner room.

"Ah . . . hah . . . hah . . . hah . . . stayin' alive . . . "

-M-

I'm not sure if EOD techs really do use music for rhythm when they're cutting wires, but I know it's used during CPR. The Bee Gee's 'Stayin' Alive' is the correct 100 compressions per minute. And now you know!

Yet again, tiny little scenes became huge long scenes. I thought I'd get further this chapter than I did. It should be pretty apparent by now what's going to happen next.

I hope you're not attached to anyone in that villa . . .


	14. Chapter 14

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

"Uh-uh. Where do you think _you're_ going?"

Jack pulled himself up short, raising an eyebrow and giving the ol' Jack Dalton Stink Eye over his shoulder.

Bozer had planted himself in the hallway behind him, with his arms crossed over his chest and his lower lip shoved out. He looked a little broader around the middle than he had earlier in the morning, and he was gripping a wooden spoon in his fist like he intended to use it.

"Well, if you must know, I'm going to the garage." Which was technically the truth.

Bozer narrowed his eyes, and then he brandished the spoon. "And what's in your hands?"

Jack didn't turn. It still hurt like hell to rotate his torso, and besides, it would be incriminating.

". . . snacks."

Bozer nodded. "Yeah. Those snacks, they wouldn't happen to be three gorgeous beef and arugula with horseradish aioli on ciabattas, would they?"

Jack sighed. "You know I don't know what you just said, right?"

"Jack! Come _on_! Only one of those is for you!"

He grudgingly shifted a little, so the plate was visible. "C'mon, Bozer, I'm hungry. Man cannot live on Shanghai Sally alone."

The younger man finally let him off the hook, shaking the spoon at him. "I never pegged you for a Seinfeld fan." Then he seemed to remember how the conversation started. ". . . why are you going to the garage with three sandwiches?"

"Peace and quiet." He would have tapped his ear if he'd had a free hand. "Saito and John just headed into the lion's den." He'd suggested that his newfound talents in Turkish might be useful, and Cage had reluctantly agreed when he pointed out he would be safe in the villa the entire time.

For the most part, anyway.

Bozer nearly bought it. "Oh, right. I guess it is that time." He even turned away, heading back towards the kitchen, and Jack thought he might be home free when Bozer kept turning, completing a 360 degree spin in slow motion

He was smirking. "And you need three sandwiches to do that?"

"Dude, I didn't eat anything for a week." And he hadn't liked much of what he'd eaten the week after that.

"And you want to listen to that op . . . in the garage? Not the parlor, which would be way more comfortable?"

Jack gave him a long look, and Boze's smug expression grew.

"You plan to take off the second they confirm-" Then he dropped his voice. "-that Mac's there. Don't you."

Jack tried for offended. "Dude, you really think I can take on those guys in this condition? I mean, I know I'm a badass and all, and, well, ruggedly handsome -"

The younger man gave him an appraising look. "No, but you'd sure as hell run surveillance, and make sure he didn't go anywhere else til the cavalry showed up."

"No?" Offended was still working for him. "You don't think I'm a ruggedly handsome badass?"

Bozer cracked a smile – a real one - and then Jack's earbud chirped. He listened for a second, then nodded dismissively at Bozer, and headed into the garage.

Technically only one of the sandwiches was for any alleged future travel and/or surveillance. He planned to eat the first two immediately.

-M-

His phone vibrated, and Zhan set down the binoculars, slipping the device from his pocket. It was a media text, but he stopped scrolling after the second photo.

There was no doubt the woman in the royal blue dress was the American agent they called Cage. She was draped over General Doukas' arm as snugly as the silk she was wearing.

"When were these taken?"

"Almost a week ago," came the prompt reply. "They've been seen together multiple times."

The major sighed silently. So the Americans had indeed found the link between Doukas and Aydin. "Notify the colonel."

"Already done."

His smartphone vibrated again, in his hand, and he twitched the radio out of his right ear, replacing it with the device.

"Go."

"Are you in position?" Kenan didn't sound particularly agitated.

"Yessir."

"Do you require backup?"

"No sir."

". . . don't get cocky, major."

Oguzhan gave the deck fence a dark look. "There are only eight of them. Two of them are untrained, two are asleep, and one is injured. Shall I execute?"

The lieutenant considered his words. "There's no rush. An hour or two will make little difference."

Unfortunately, that was true. "Have the other agents been identified?"

"Not yet. Your intel had them arriving at their destination around this time?"

The major consulted his watch. "Yessir."

"Has Liris been able to disrupt their coms?"

Zhan would have to put his radio back in his ear to confirm, but he was pretty sure it was going to be the same answer it was an hour ago. After the American agent they called Riley forced Liris to remove the malware from the Americans' phones, they'd lost ears for a few hours. Frankly they were fortunate she'd been able to re-compromise the smartphones, but it had distracted her from her other tasks.

"No sir. I doubt it will make much difference." Then he reconsidered. "Although I cannot guarantee that one of these won't be able to warn the other agents."

There was a murmur of voices in the background, and Zhan waited silently, staring out towards the villa.

Kenan didn't take long. "The Americans' vehicle has been spotted in Kesan. Osman and Alim will handle them. Your primary objective is destruction of intelligence. The secondary objective is elimination of enemy agents. Execute at will, major."

"Yes sir." He disconnected the phone and dropped it back into its pocket, and replaced the radio into his right ear.

"Did you copy?"

"Enough." Liris sounded distracted. "Based on their phone locations, I have two targets on overwatch, two in the southwest, first floor, one in the southeast, first floor, one in the northeast, first floor, and one in the southwest, second floor."

Seven of eight. "Where's the Green Beret?"

"I don't know. He has no phone, and I'm not picking up any audio from him."

No matter. He was injured, and shouldn't pose an issue.

"Can you disrupt their coms?"

A quiet pop. "I can broadcast a signal."

Zhan considered it, setting down the binoculars and exchanging them for the rifle. He gave the weapon a final check, the routine movements soothing. "No. Two of the agents are asleep. I'd prefer not to wake them."

He used a foot to shove the lounge chair out of the way, settling into a prone position, and he lined up the first shot. The drapes in the windows, while occasionally interfering with visuals, worked brilliantly as wind indicators, and he selected the perimeter agent in the light blue Fiat. He was the furthest from the villa, and out of line of sight of the other overwatch agent.

Zhan timed the shot with a passing car. The moment the glass of the other vehicle was just about to clear, he gently squeezed the trigger.

There was little spatter, and the tires of the passing vehicle muffled the sound of any broken glass. Zhan sighted on the second agent, seated deep in the corner of the property at a small garden table. There was no need to mind glass, and the major dropped him cleanly.

The Barrett M95 was his favorite anti-personnel rifle for distances of 900 or more meters, quiet and with virtually no recoil, but its one drawback was that it held only five rounds. He unhurriedly exchanged the magazine, leaving the third round from the previous still chambered.

Six shots, three targets.

"Do I still have two targets, first floor southwest corner?"

A quiet pop. "Yes."

Zhan found the two windows of the library. The front window contained blinds rather than drapes, and a simple adjustment to the scope allowed him to pick out the agent sleeping upright in a chair, closest to the hall door. The other was not in line of sight.

Which was easy enough to fix.

He was using anti-personnel rounds, making the Americans' ballistic armor worthless, and he decided to go center mass. Between the armor, the body, the rest of the armor, and the chair, it would slow the round enough to somewhat muffle the impact. The window, opened to tempt the breeze, meant there would be no sound of breaking glass.

He took the agent, watching the result carefully, but it didn't appear the man regained consciousness or called out. Zhan took a half breath and held it, and the moment a shadow approached the dying agent from the left, he fired through the upper left corner of the window, through the hanging curtain, exactly where the other agent's head should be.

A torso fell into view, quite still, beside the chair.

Four targets down.

His right ear popped. "Southeast, first floor is on the move."

Zhan swung the bipod just a touch, looking through the window above the front door, into the foyer. There were no pesky curtains, but unfortunately there were also no doors to muffle the sound of breaking plate glass.

"Liris, I need a distraction."

The shadow entered the hallway from the parlor, and it was just too convenient. He dropped the American in the wide hallway, and then Zhan abandoned the rifle, heading quickly through the master suite and downstairs.

The primary objective was destruction of intelligence. Though Riley was an easy target there on the second floor, he needed her alive – temporarily – to complete his primary objective. And there was no shot from his position for the back of the house.

It was time to see how those flowers he'd delivered were looking.

"Consider them distracted."

He didn't pride himself on his speed as a sprinter, but he wasn't slow by any stretch, and Zhan used the large, unlocked French doors of the parlor, which the overwatch agent used to access the garden, as his entrance. The trip had still given the Americans almost three minutes to regroup.

He took a few deep lungfuls of air, mastering the speed of his breathing. "Targets?"

"Second floor hasn't moved. First floor, northeast corner is now somewhere in the middle of the house."

Zhan jogged lightly across the empty parlor, drawing his sidearm and sighting the downed agent in the hallway. Surely whomever else was now in the hallway wasn't stupid enough to approach the glass to check on their obviously dead colleague, but one could never be too lucky.

In this case, the agent wasn't stupid. He was just untrained.

It was the chef, the young man with the impeccable Kenyan accent. He had a gun, and he held it as if he knew which end was which, but he barely reacted when Zhan eased around the doorframe. He was wearing a dark brown tee shirt and an apron, no vest in sight, and Zhan put two into his chest before he could get off a single shot. His own weapon was suppressed, the sound nothing more than a soft sigh, but the chef fell heavily enough to have been heard upstairs.

A glance into the library showed him the unidentified second target had been the woman, Cage.

So all he was missing was Riley and 'Jack.'

Zhan eyed the hallway that led to the kitchen, but if Jack had been in there, he wouldn't have sent the chef to his death. He left the young agent on the floor, wheezing out his last, as a distraction. Just in case. Then he took the stairs two at a time.

-M-

"We're in."

There were a few indistinct voices, and after they faded out, John whistled under his breath. "They're pretty serious."

Jack relaxed painfully into the cot, letting his body settle bit by bit. The vest wasn't too bad when he was standing, but sitting or lying down in any way was less pleasant. He distracted himself with a little morsel of beef stuck between two of his molars.

Whatever the hell Bozer had called those sandwiches, they were _really_ damn good.

Jack eased an arm behind his head, staring up at the acoustic tile ceiling of the villa's garage, and let his eyes unfocus. Riley had intentionally tuned this channel to pick up more background sound than the coms normally would, and he could make out doors opening and closing, footsteps, even a few voices here and there as Saito and John passed other recruits.

They'd gotten in the door and been issued a kit and a room without actually having to say anything. Riley had her gizmo ready to feed them any Turkish they needed. What it couldn't do was reliably pick it up from the background noise.

Not that what he was doing was much more reliable. His command of Turkish was largely that of a thirteen year old who thought most things were either shitty or stupid.

Jack closed his eyes for a moment. _Ah, kid. I wish your old man had let those doctors patch you up._

Matty knew why he'd sent the agents to round up Goral and his family and take them to the local hospital. She got it. He didn't really expect Riley to, though. Her pop was basically useless. And he hadn't been much better; as soon as he'd realized how attached she was getting, he'd run for the hills.

And regretted it ever since.

But Goral, that guy did what he'd done to get money for medicine. Real medicine, not that witch doctor juju his wife peddled. Jack'd bet his two weeks of lost pay on it. The gypsy was a gypsy, no doubt about it, but it wasn't like he intentionally tried to sell him back to Aydin. He just wanted a fair price, and set up what he thought was a safe swap.

No need for punish the kid for the sins of the father.

And, oddly enough, it seemed Turkish soldiers and Turkish teenagers had quite a bit in common. The words Jack could hear, he pieced together into something about a shitty bed.

"Your roomies aren't impressed with the accommodations."

Neither Saito nor John replied, and Jack figured they'd probably already figured that out for themselves.

"Okay, guys. Remember, any network jack will do." Riley's voice seemed very loud in comparison to the others in his ear. "Just pick one where you can leave the dongle for at least ten minutes. That should give me enough time to get in and establish a hardwire connection."

A Turk addressed one of the Phoenix agents directly, and there was a click as Riley's translation software supplied a short response, in what the software engineers probably thought was a soothing female voice. Jack heard John repeat it, almost perfectly.

"Your first briefing's in thirty minutes, and then they'll separate you out for drills," Riley supplied after a beat. "You said you understood."

". . . but I didn't," John murmured under his breath, and Jack snickered.

"That thing sounds just like my ex wife," Saito added, with a hint of wonder in his voice.

Jack thought it sounded a whole lot like a bitchin' betty, but he kept that to himself. None of the rest of them knew what one of those was.

Mac would appreciate it, thought.

He knew better than to ask; if they saw any sign of Mac, or cells, or interrogation rooms, they'd speak up. No matter how much it was killing him to play this cool, it was the smart move.

It was just taking too fucking long.

He knew it. Worse, Cage knew it. She was in the business of doing to others what they were probably doing to Mac. He didn't disagree with her assessment that they were taking a hell of a risk, and he grudgingly respected that she was taking it right along with the rest of them.

But if she thought she was in charge of this op, then she'd obviously taken a toke off his opium pipe. Jack didn't doubt for a second that not a one of them would obey if she told them to abort. Hell, he wasn't sure any of 'em would even if Matty tried to pull the plug.

These were good operators, and he was grateful to all of them. No matter how this played out.

"When you comedians are finished, you've got about a half hour to take the self guided tour," Riley reminded them drily, and Jack felt a little burst of pride. These were good operators, and his beautiful girl fit right in.

Jack listened to them moving around, and then a door slammed. It sounded like a levered mechanism, not a knob. "Hey, what kind of locks are on those doors?"

"Electronic," Saito supplied quietly.

Good. As soon as Riles got control of the network, they had a shot at locking it down.

"Compound is four buildings," the other agent continued, under his breath. "One's a warehouse, clearly for drills. One's administrative. Lots of ventilation on the roof. At least one floor below ground."

The recruitment propaganda had been specific – no phones. No smartphones meant none of the recruits could hypothetically be tracked to the center, but it also meant no photos. The best Riley could do was the overhead satellite view. Jack had already memorized the layout, so there was no point in staying upstairs. He could hear better down here, away from all the white noise her computers made.

Probably why there were three sleeping cots in the garage, taking up one of the two car ports.

"How many on perimeter?"

There was a quick clacking of keys. "Uh . . . I count twelve on the outside perimeter. Hard to tell who's a guard and who's a recruit once you guys are inside the main gate."

Jack blinked. Twelve guards on the perimeter? Were they expecting company? "That's a little overkill . . ."

"Yeah . . . I'm thinking the same thing," Saito muttered. "Didn't see that many when we came in."

Jack opened his eyes, focusing less on the background noise. "Is there a chance the colonel's there?" If Batuhan Aydin himself was going to give the keynote, that would explain the extra security.

"There's a chopper in the south parking lot, been there about three hours," Riley offered.

"No eyes on him yet."

Some other recruits passed by, their voices too indistinct to make out, and Jack listened to the agents proceed through a double door.

The ambient noise increased – clearly they were in a more populated area. There was a lot of clattering, it kind of reminded him a cafeteria. He heard someone shout something in Turkish, and then there was a lot of jeering, and a weak cheer went up.

Grunts being grunts.

One of the agents hissed, and then a hinge creaked, and the ambient noise quieted again. "What does that look like to you?" It was Saito's voice, very soft.

There was the sound of fabric moving, then John swore. "A problem."

Jack also kept his voice low. "Wanna fill us in?"

"One of the uniforms is flashing pictures."

Jack closed his eyes again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. There was no way to tell if those were pictures of them, or undercover cops, or undercover Turkish soldiers, or the guy's kids at soccer practice.

"Boze did you up, right?"

"Yeah. We both got new faces."

. . . how the hell would they have pictures of Saito and John?

"Riles, did any searches come up besides on me and Mac?"

More typing. "Nothing that I've picked up."

It wasn't like he worked that many ops with either Saito or John Tunne. Neither had Mac. There'd be no way to link them together. Jack sighed quietly. If they had pictures of Saito and Tunne, it was because they'd identified the villa. And if Aydin's men had done that, they had a whole 'nother problem on their hands.

"Guys, I don't think they're after you. Just keep it low key."

The other agents were silent, and a muffled cheer went up from the room they were no longer in. "Agreed," John finally said. ". . . also, jackpot."

There was more fabric rustling, and then a little click.

"Found your dongle a nice little home, Riley."

". . . sweet." There was some furious typing. "I see it. Good job. Where is it?"

"We're in some kinda little classroom, off a main event space slash mess. It's under a table."

That was good – but not good enough, if these guys were already on alert. Even if Aydin's men weren't looking for Saito and John, they were looking for someone. If any of those prospective recruits were tech savvy or intelligence, that dongle was bound to get noticed.

"Is your position safe for the next ten?"

John made an 'eh' noise.

"Jack?"

He opened his eyes. "Yeah, Riles?"

"Are you downstairs?"

" . . . yeah . . ."

"Did you – nevermind. Be right back."

"Riley, wait-" Unthinkingly, he prepared to sit up, and his abdomen reminded him that, though the stitches were gone, it was still pretty upset with him. He held his breath to keep silent, gritting his teeth, and then he rolled up into a sitting position, swinging his legs off the cot.

When Riley went off coms, so did her little Turkish Bitchin' Betty.

There was a little pop in his ear. "Sorry, guys, I gotta drop for a few. There's, like, a Greek ham radio guy on our other frequency. I can barely hear anybody else. Hang tight, shouldn't take long."

"Riley –"

There was a moment of silence.

"Aaaand she's gone." John didn't sound terribly upset about it, which Jack translated as their position was relatively safe.

Of course, now John and Saito _couldn't_ leave that room, because neither of them, nor Jack, spoke enough Turkish to get them by. If the uniforms were already on the lookout for someone, two Turks who didn't speak Turkish were going to jump to the front of the line.

"Anything else interesting in there?"

He heard some shuffling around, and what sounded like the pages of a book being flipped. "Think these are basic military academy texts. Everything in here's brand new, and cheap. Looks like they knocked over an Ikea on their way back from Bondsteel."

"Yo."

Jack listened as some plastic blinds were shifted.

". . . got motion on that helo."

Jack checked his watch. They were still more than twenty minutes out from the keynote.

Maybe the colonel wasn't there yet, and they were going to pick him up. "Do you have a route to that parking lot?"

". . . we could make one."

So much for low key. "Anything else?"

They were quiet for a few moments. "Only place is that admin building. If it's got a basement, you could keep someone quiet in there. And with all the other construction that's been going on here, I don't think anybody'd hear a thing."

Jack climbed to his feet, carefully. "Okay. Wait for Riles to give you the green light, and pocket that dongle. Once she gets eyes, I'll walk you through."

"Copy."

There was a quiet pop. "Jack!" It was an urgent whisper, and she didn't wait for him to respond. "Jack, there's _someone here_. In the villa."

He started moving after the first word.

Jack snagged a 9 mil from behind a can of paint on the utility shelf, checking the chamber. There were no windows in the garage save the strip of whited out glass in the doors themselves, and Jack ignored them, putting his other ear up to the door leading back into the mud room.

Silence.

The agents in his ear were equally silent, the only thing he could hear was Riley's frightened breathing as he eased the door open, clearing the mud room and approaching the back kitchen door.

"Talk to me, Riles. What do you see."

The door to the kitchen was also solid, no glass, and he didn't hear anything behind it. Which was wrong. He should have heard a Bozer.

Adrenaline squeezed the bottom of his lungs. "Riley, lock your door. Do it right now."

"Cameras are down," Riley finally whispered. "I don't – shit!"

There was a flurry of keystrokes, and Jack burst through the kitchen door. It was a large room, and the generous island left a lot of real estate hidden. There were two plates containing sandwiches on the counter closest to the opposite end of the kitchen, well away from the sink and cutting board.

As if someone had left them there, just before walking out the door.

"Someone's accessed our network." Riley's voice was tight. "Jack –"

There was the sound of an impact, and then Riley's breathing faltered.

"Riley!"

Jack crossed the kitchen swiftly, confirming no one was hiding – or lying – on the other side of the island, and headed towards the swinging door in a limping sprint. In his ear, Riley gave a shaky little gasp, one he'd heard too many times to mistake for anything else.

"Riley, I'm comin'."

The door swung open quietly, and the servant's hall was not empty.

There was a body lying in it. Still alive; he could hear Bozer struggling to breathe.

Jack swore, moving as quickly as he could along the back wall, getting a line of sight down the hallway and avoiding being seen from the stairwell.

There was a quiet cry of disbelief in his ear.

And there was a second body, in the main hallway. The back of Gabe's head was several feet behind the rest of him.

There were pieces of furniture in the hall that were large enough to hide an enemy, and Jack kept his head up even as he crouched clumsily beside Bozer, checking his pulse. He was surprised to find it fast and strong, and Wilt flinched under his fingers

Jack glanced down at him, picking out the two small holes in his apron, but there was no stain. No blood. He put his hand on the younger man's chest, to feel for the damage, and he realized why Bozer had looked so barrel chested earlier.

He was wearing his vest. He'd put it on under his shirt - probably so that it didn't mess with his apron.

There was a ragged scream. This time, Jack heard it in stereo.

"Bozer, get outta here!" He hauled the younger man into a sitting position, not missing the way he was wheezing, or how dazed he looked. Bruised ribs at least, maybe worse. "Take a car and go!"

Then he was up the stairs as fast as his left leg would get him there.

-M-

The major glanced into the bathroom, finding it empty, and he continued past the master suite without bothering to clear it. It would have been the domain of the Lady King – Cage. And he already knew where she was.

The southwest bedroom, on the other hand, he knew was occupied, and he headed directly for it.

The young maid was at the far end of the room, on the other side of the bed, holding a keyboard with one hand and typing with the other. She was wearing her ballistic vest like a good little agent.

"-one's accessed our network." She glanced up at the door. "Jack –"

When she realized he was in fact not Jack, she dropped the keyboard and reached behind her, and he almost tutted, freeing and tossing a blade in the same motion. It struck her solidly in the right shoulder, just beside the armhole of her vest.

The gun she'd barely gotten her fingers around fell softly onto the carpeting behind her, and she stared at the protruding tang of the throwing knife a moment in total shock.

Zhan eyed the wall of computers and monitors. At a glance, he wasn't sure which system was controlling their coms.

Old fashioned way it was.

He crossed the room swiftly, tucking his sidearm back in its holster while the young woman was still stunned. She started to back away from him, towards her discarded weapon, and he easily overtook her. Her defensive strike was slow and panicked, deflected effortlessly, and he grabbed a handful of her hair and then withdrew his knife from her shoulder with a twist of his wrist.

She screamed, half collapsing, and he took the opportunity to slip behind her, swapping the slick blade into his left hand as he did so. He brought it up beneath her left arm, which was raised as she clutched her torn shoulder, and put his wrist between her breasts, placing the tip of the knife just under the right side of her jaw.

She jerked in his grasp, and he let the blade cut her. She figured it out pretty quickly, clutching his left arm for support as much to stop the knife, and Zhan finally spied the earwig, in her right ear.

He plucked it out, crushing it in his hand before discarding it, and he positioned her body between his and the door.

"Which system controls your communications?"

The agent trembled against him, but she said nothing, and he tilted his wrist a few degrees. Letting the blade cut her.

The woman whimpered, but she didn't speak.

In his ear, his radio gave a little pop. "Look for a laptop, or plug it straight into the router. Either will work."

The wall of computers didn't immediately yield anything he recognized as a router, but there was a ruggedized laptop on the bed. Unlocked. Zhan used the tip of the knife to maneuver the agent to the bed, and he withdrew one of the USB sticks from his tac vest.

A light pressure from the blade managed to get the agent to comply, bending just enough, and it took him only seconds to locate and utilize an open USB port. Once that was done, he angled the agent again towards the door, retrieving his sidearm.

Just in time.

The last American – the one who had given Hakan and Kenan so much trouble, just a few short weeks ago – came in around the doorframe. Had he been even a second sooner, 'Jack' would have had him dead to rights.

Instead, he hesitated, with no clean shot, and Zhan knew he didn't have time to bring his sidearm up so he fired from the woman's hip, two rounds into the agent's lower torso.

Jack was wearing a vest, but the major knew well precisely how little it would do to protect him. His abdominal injury had to have been severe, and his hunch was proven as the soldier fell as if the slugs had actually torn through him. It probably felt like they had.

The woman in his arms let out a cry louder than the soldier himself, undoubtedly cutting her jaw once more on the point of the knife, and Jack slumped heavily against the doorframe where he'd collapsed, fighting to stay conscious. His weapon had fallen out of reach.

The major raised his sidearm, actually aiming this time, and the woman tried to twitch her useless right arm. It was ineffectual; he'd sliced the ligament when he'd withdrawn the knife. She succeeded only in causing herself more pain, and Jack managed to get his eyes open for a moment. There was a surprising intensity of hatred in them, considering how close to unconsciousness he was.

The interactions between these two agents were much different – much closer – than others. Zhan had heard him use several nicknames for her. And it was clear his pain was distressing her. "If you cooperate, I will spare his life."

For the next few minutes.

"I don't think we need her," Liris countered. Her voice was uncharacteristically tight. "Major . . . they have almost everything."

The monitors beside him came to life, displaying detailed maps of the region. The Americans had flagged many places. Some were legitimately their properties, in fact –

In fact, every single training base, recruitment center, logistics depot, and even the colonel's current location, were on that map.

There were other things flagged, places he didn't recognize, but that was little comfort. That intelligence in the hands of Erdogan would stop their efforts cold. They'd have to take the colonel out of the country, potentially for months, before they could acquire a new stronghold.

Any momentum they had built with the diplomat's death would be wasted. They would have to start again. Clearly without the help of Doukas.

This was . . . far worse than any of them had anticipated.

The woman – Riley – had turned towards the monitors, and she made a choked sound as she saw what Liris was doing. "No, you can't-"

He shifted his wrist another degree, eliciting another whimper of pain. "Who else has this information?"

The agent closed her mouth. Zhan felt something warm drip onto his left hand, too light to be blood. But her tears were not what he wanted. He raised his sidearm again, sighting Jack.

"I won't ask you again."

"Who do you think." The soldier's voice was like crumbled sandstone. He bared his teeth in a smile, or perhaps a grimace. "You're hosed, man. It's over."

The young agent still trembled, but didn't say anything else.

Zhan put a round beside the soldier's right ear, close enough that splintered wood from the doorframe cut the side of his face. Jack didn't flinch, but the female agent did.

"Be specific."

Jack shifted a little; clearly his pain was starting to recede. " . . . how's your alphabet? Just start stringin' three letters together . . . I'll tell you when."

Zhan added a slug to the two already in the agent's vest, and Riley jumped again.

"Stop! Stop! Please stop! Please . . ."

The major shifted his wrist another degree. "It was a simple question."

The woman sobbed, once. "N-no one," she managed. "No one has a copy of the map. Just . . . just us."

Zhan tsked.

". . . I think she's telling the truth." Liris sounded somewhat surprised. "There's no logs of any major data transfers outside her internal network."

Why would they have amassed all this information, without sending it to their leadership? "Are you able to access their parent organization?"

Riley seemed to realize that he wasn't speaking to her, because she didn't say anything. She just wept, and watched the evidence she and her fellow agents had worked so hard to collect being wiped and overwritten. Jack was occupied trying to remember how to breathe.

". . . yes." There was a long pause. "If you can get her credentials, that would speed things along."

That would require spending more time than he felt comfortable in that villa. Zhan knew well how open to snipers his back was. And there was no guarantee she hadn't managed to get some kind of message off before he'd rid her of her keyboard.

No matter. There was plenty of time – and adequate space – at the timeshare. She didn't need to be able to speak, just to write.

"I would like your username and password to the Phoenix Foundation systems," he told her.

"And I'd like . . . you to go jump off a bridge." The soldier had paled somewhat. His voice was weaker, but the level of his fury was about the same. "You're wasting time, camelstain. You should . . . be runnin'."

He'd already made it clear exactly what noncompliance would get her, and Zhan raised his weapon once more. He'd wasted as many rounds as he was comfortable spending, and she obviously knew it, because she sobbed again, and he felt her jaw moving, mouthing words silently.

And she had nothing to apologize for. It wasn't as if this could have gone any other way.

" . . . RDA271."

He supposed that could be a username.

"And your password?"

"- is none of your damn business."

The voice had come from the hallway.

Zhan didn't shift his aim, watching as the thinnest sliver of a dark-skinned person came into view around the doorframe, just until an eyeball and the muzzle of a gun were visible.

It was the chef. He must have been wearing a vest under his shirt.

Zhan nearly shook his head. Untrained. Just like the agent in his arms. It was almost a shame.

Unfortunately, that one had had plenty of time to call in help, which meant it was time to go. Zhan took a step back with Riley, as if giving ground to this new threat, and predictably, the young African American exposed another inch or so of his face.

Jack wasn't so easily fooled. "Bozer, stay where you are!"

-M-

The operator's eyes flickered in surprise, now more interested in Boze than in him, and Jack would have kicked himself if it wouldn't have meant moving anything below his chin. God only knew what that idiot thought he was going to do.

_Same thing as you, you dumbass._

Riley's eyes were fixed on his, begging him to tell her what to do. But he just couldn't get a hand on his backup weapon, not in time to do anything with it before lights out. That wasn't going to do her any more good than his current plan, which was waste time and hope that more than one Phoenix agent was still alive.

A Phoenix agent besides Bozer. A useful one.

". . . what? You know my name?" Bozer had lowered his voice, and steeled it a little.

The Turk – and he looked more Middle Eastern than Turkish – shifted his aim, off Jack and up to the doorframe.

"Your friend has called out for you. Many times."

Jack moved, then – not to grab his backup, there was no time for that – but to throw his left arm behind him, hoping against hope it was going to be enough to knock Bozer back. That was bait, pure and simple, and he heard Wilt fall for it, heard him moving –

Glass shattered, and the operator was struck from behind. He ragdolled, dragging Riley down with him, and the curtain behind him was spattered in pink mist.

Jack couldn't help a grunt of pain as the arm he'd thrown back pulled on his gut, but he rolled forward the best he could, out of the doorframe. Bozer got the message, jumping over his legs, still with the gun drawn.

He never did hear the report of the rifle. It must have been suppressed.

Bozer was at Riley's side at an instant, and she was moving, her left hand was around her throat.

"Get outta the damn window!" Jack shouted, wrapping his arm around his stomach. Warmth trickled under his waistband as he rolled to his knees.

Bozer responded immediately to his order – at least he obeyed _one_ of them – and dragged Riley away from the glass and towards the wall of monitors. She crawled with him, releasing her neck to reach with her bloodied left hand for the rack of computers.

There was a lot of blood on her throat.

Jack shifted onto his other hip, turning back for the hallway and the stairs to cover them. Getting up wasn't an option. He'd only slow them down.

The odds of one of theirs deciding to find a sniper's nest rather than just coming up a flight of stairs was slim to none. The operator had been moving, it may have just been a situation of the sniper being at too much distance. There was no telling if that shot had been friendly fire, and they still had one or more of the strike team to deal with.

Probably a pair, if only one had breached the villa. They could expect his partner shortly. Undoubtedly in a _really_ foul mood.

"Riles, you okay?"

Jack turned, still watching the hallway with one eye, and saw her in his peripheral vision, ripping cables out of servers. After three or four, she seemed satisfied, clapping her hand back onto her neck while Bozer hovered, not quite sure what to do.

"Bozer!"

He looked up, wild-eyed, and Jack gestured at the hall closet. "First aid kit. Under the towels."

Bozer nodded, hopping over him again, and Jack turned fully to look at Riley.

Her throat was bleeding freely, he could see the blood seeping between her fingers. The Turk must have spasmed when he was killed, nicked either her carotid or jugular. The shoulder was just as bad. Pressure and some quikclot from the trauma kit would probably keep her in one piece till they could get her patched up.

She saw his eyes, nodding and swallowing painfully. "I . . cut the connection to Phoenix, took down the router. It's safe."

Phoenix was a hell of a lot safer than they were. "Talk to me, girl. You alright?"

She kept nodding, but her breath was coming faster and faster. "Yeah. Right arm doesn't . . . I can't move it."

Either nerve or ligament. Not good. "It's okay. Hey. Hey, Riley. Look at me."

She did, her brows puckered as she fought her pain, and he tried for an easy smile.

"We're gonna be okay. You did great. Better than great. I'm so proud of you."

She half-laughed, half-sobbed, and then Bozer was back with the olive drab kit. Jack snagged it out of his hands, ripping open the Velcro panel and locating a couple clotting pads.

He handed them to Bozer, who got the picture and went straight to Riley, and then Jack dug into the zippered pouch. He came up with a couple thick green pens, and selected two of the ones with a bright yellow cap. He thumbed the red safety plug off the first one, jammed the yellow end onto his left thigh, and pressed the black plunger. The auto injector worked like a charm, with a sharp pop as the gas shot the needle an inch or so into his thigh. He held it there for a ten count.

It burned a little, but it was nothing compared to his gut, and Jack took a deep breath and waited for the morphine to do its thing.

Without a rifle report to time it, he figured they had two minutes, max, before the other soldier was on them. They'd just burned almost sixty seconds of it.

Behind him, Riley bellowed in surprised pain, and Bozer, to his credit, didn't flinch, or take pressure off her neck.

"I'm sorry, babe, I know it burns. Mac did the same damn thing to me when fake Dr. Zito got me in the lab." He was babbling, but he'd already prepped the pad for her shoulder, and when he got her to hold the one on her throat, he slapped the second one down.

This time Riley was ready for it – or at least expected it – and she kept it to a yell through her nose. Jack took another deep breath, then he forced his legs to bend, and used the doorframe to pull himself to his feet.

Clearly not enough morphine.

The second injector, he used on Riley's right bicep, and she gave him a dirty look. It was probably nothing compared to the clotting agent, and he watched her eyes closely until her pupils started to shrink.

"There ya go," he grinned, knowing his own had probably narrowed to pinpricks. He turned back to the stairwell, finally able to stand mostly upright, and he gestured for them to follow.

"Wait! Boze, my bag-"

"No time," Jack snapped over his shoulder.

"We need it," Riley shot back. "Trust me."

There was a faint sound of glass grinding into tile.

Jack threw up his left fist in a sign he knew damn well they both understood, and without looking at either of them, he motioned with two fingers for them to get back in the bedroom. He heard the door close, and trusted that they both had enough sense to stay the hell away from the window.

Then he chose the bedroom across from Riley's, put his back to the inside of the doorframe, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. Light, rapid steps came up the stairs, the carpet made it impossible to be silent. Whoever it was paused on the landing, and Jack kept Riley's door in his peripheral vision. A few drops of blood on the white carpet caught his eye, and he mentally cursed, glaring down at his stomach before leaning out just a touch and checking the hall.

Left a goddamn trail right into the bedroom.

Not that whoever was on the landing could see the blood. Not yet.

The footsteps continued, ever so soft, and he waited, holding his breath. The feet sidled up to the closed bedroom door, across the hall, and he gave it a three count, and eased around the doorframe.

A brown-haired figure he would have recognized with his eyes closed had her back to the wall, just on the outside of Riley's doorframe, gun pointed right at him.

They both flinched, jerking barrels off sight, and Jack couldn't help it. He started to laugh. The morphine didn't help much with it, but he just didn't care.

For her part, the woman was torn between relief and disbelief.

". . . six months, Jack. I can't even be married _six months_ without you getting yourself killed."

-M-

Sorry about the cliffie – the next scene is crazy long, and it really doesn't do much to help. Our guys were so close! But Aydin's guys were just a little closer.

The next chapter will also end in a cliffie, I'm sorry to say, but we will resolve a lot of the questions of this chapter, including who lived, who died, and what they're going to do about it. On the plus side, at least you have a lot fewer characters to worry about?


	15. Chapter 15

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **Note:** Several of you seemed a little confused by the Kenan transponder explanation from Chapter 13. I've added a little explanation here, but let me know if it still doesn't make sense to you.

 **Content Warning** : Super mild tearjerk warning.

-M-

"Bottom line it for me."

The young man beside Director Bosch cleared his throat. "We think that Colonel Aydin may be using this to track your fleet."

Strategic Commander Ives' white mustache looked supremely unimpressed. "They can do that with a boat, son. Or a satellite."

"Our intelligence indicates they don't have that deep a reach into Turkish intelligence or military assets," the analyst contradicted politely. "Also, the diagnostic code indicates this didn't come from a naval transponder. They may be using aircraft transponders to mimic the handshake."

He held up the report, which none of them had bothered to read past the first page. "You see here there's an error in the machine code. It's very small, just one number off, which is why it showed up as a diagnostic code at all. But that means that this transponder would never have worked correctly, ever. This would be caught during testing before the transponder was ever installed. Someone . . . typoed."

Matty remained quiet, watching the two NATO commanders. It was the first time Walbright had been on one of their videoconferences, and while the Strategic Commander held the ultimate authority, Commander Walbright was the officer on the destroyer in the Sea of Marmara, and any action NATO might take against Colonel Aydin was his call.

He was a middle-aged man, acquiring a little grey at his temples, and his buzz cut indicated he may have been a Marine at some point in his career. He wasn't hiding behind a mustache, and his expression was a little more serious than Ives'.

"My men can confirm that. The error, and the possibility that it's an aircraft. That transponder ping has been coming from all over the place. Whatever it is, it's staying off radar."

Matty was with Ives on this one. Mac's little trick to get the word out was welcome, but it wasn't that helpful. Liz's analysis agreed with Walbright's – whatever transponder Aydin was using, it was on the move. They couldn't use it to get a definitive location on either the colonel or MacGyver.

However, it wasn't that dangerous, either. It told the colonel where the fleet was, but a satellite or even an enemy boat could do the same thing. There was a lot of commercial traffic in the Sea of Marmara, so the NATO fleet couldn't run silent. Even if Aydin launched an attack, it wasn't as if the NATO fleet was helpless.

Tracking the fleet was most likely to aid Aydin in smuggling men and weapons across the Sea of Marmara. If they knew where the fleet was, they could calculate radar range and make sure their own ships or aircraft remained undetected while they were crossing the water. The only reason the fleet had been deployed to Marmara in the first place was to force Aydin's movements over land, which added a significant amount of delay. It was 46 miles across the sea, but 227 miles of road.

And both those commanders knew it.

"We could spread the fleet out, try to improve our radar range, but that might be exactly what this colonel wants."

Matty glanced back up at the Strategic Commander. "Were there any anti-ship weapons taken from Camp Bondsteel?" She already knew the answer – no. Sure, rockets could be launched from small boats if they got close enough, but there was nothing Aydin had taken that would be sufficient to actually destroy a naval fleet.

And he wouldn't. His beef wasn't with the world – it was with one regime.

The mustache twitched. "Little lady, you know I can't answer that."

Matty inclined her head. "My point is, I don't think this poses a serious threat to your men."

"It poses a serious threat to our mission," Walbright countered. "We're out here trying to disrupt this militia's movements while Turkey gets their shit together. If we can't do that, we're just bobbing around burnin' fuel."

And there was plenty of other work for NATO resources to be doing in the region. "I appreciate that, Commander. But if you turn off your transponders and stop replying, they'll realize they've been detected. Their next method for evading you could be much more dangerous."

There was a soft tap on the glass of her office, and Matty ignored it, watching Walbright chew on her words.

"Even if you spread your fleet, you don't have the reach to cover the entire sea," Bosch's analyst said, almost apologetically. He'd been scribbling on the back of the report he'd written. "There would be holes in your net sufficient for small ships and aircraft to slip through. If they had your coordinates, it would be easy to find them."

A small red window popped up, superimposed over the joint videoconference. Priority one alert.

Which meant one of her ops had just gone sideways in a major way.

Matty gave a quick nod to excuse herself, walking off-camera, and Liz and Jill were on the other side of the glass. Jill pointed urgently at the tablet on her desk. Someone had initiated a videocall, but it was muted; Matty could see the roof of a vehicle and half of Sarah Adler's face. She was driving, rather quickly based on the movements of the steering wheel.

Matty carried the tablet with her, walking back on camera. "I apologize, something's come up. I'll be in touch with Director Bosch to see if there's anything the Phoenix can do to assist."

She didn't even wait for them to acknowledge her, she just cut the connection, and then she used a finger to fling the video call onto her main monitors.

"Sarah. What happened?"

"What didn't." Though she didn't see him in frame, the voice was undoubtedly Jack's. "Safehouse is compromised, Matty. Four agents down, four wounded."

Matty jerked her hand in a come hither motion at the glass. "Was it the colonel?"

"One of his Maroon Berets."

" _One_?"

Sarah had glanced over at her passenger, her expression grim, and then the scene shook, and Jack came into view. He looked exactly how she'd expect, considering the information he'd just shared.

Four agents down. Almost half their team.

"They tried to access Phoenix. Riley doesn't think they made it, but you better check."

One glare had Liz doing just that. "Are you secure?"

"Getting there." It was Sarah. "Our operation should still be clean. I've got a couple contacts here in Greece, we'll handle recovery."

Recovery of bodies.

"Who's with you?" Living agents were the higher priority.

"Boze, Riley, Cage for now. Saito and Tunne were at the recruitment center in Kesan when we went dark."

So all four of them were wounded, and John and Saito were stranded and quite literally surrounded. If the villa had been compromised, chances were their covers had been, too.

"Jill, get Charlie site online. Send two agents to establish contact with Saito and Tunne." If it wasn't already too late. "Jack, what do you need?"

He glanced into the backseat. "A hospital. Riley's lost a lotta blood, and Samantha's in pretty bad shape."

And he knew they couldn't secure one. They didn't have the boots on the ground. He needed a surgeon, but something smaller than a hospital, something that they had some hope of defending.

Matty snapped to get Liz's attention. "Use Riley's list to get me ambulatory surgery centers and clinics close to their current location."

The analyst balked. "I – I can't, director. We lost connection to the safehouse."

And all the information there.

Matty took a calming breath. They'd been very cautious about what data they'd left in Riley's capable hands, and what data they'd brought back to Phoenix servers. If the State Department had subpoenaed them, every detail of the op they had been forbidden from running by the Secretary of State would have been exposed.

Exposed to the mole Sarah Adler was supposed to be tracking down. And from there to the colonel.

It was a standard tactic, compartmentalizing intelligence, but sometimes it backfired. Of all the times for that to happen, it would have to be now.

"They hacked us and wiped it, Matty. Whole kit. Least they think they did."

He had glanced into the back seat again, and grimaced as he extended an arm back. "Riles had some of it backed up, in case she – decided to lone wolf it." He came up with a laptop, cracking it open. There was most of a bloody handprint on the outside of the laptop's monitor.

". . . I have no idea how to do that."

Matty heard an indistinct, low voice she assumed was Bozer, and Jack hunted around on the keyboard a moment.

"Okay, try it now."

Matty turned to the analysts. "How far are they from Charlie site?"

"Uh . . . about an hour out," Jill supplied.

"I'm in," Liz added, and a map appeared on one of Matty's monitors. It loaded slowly – courtesy of Sarah's on-board wifi no doubt – but eventually a small yellow dot appeared. Charlie site, their backup safehouse, was about sixty miles from their current position.

"What about Riley's list?"

Liz was typing a mile a minute. ". . . some of it, anyway." She hit a few more keys, then looked up at the monitor, and a few dots began to appear on the map. At first they were quite far out, but eventually one appeared on their route, about ten miles from their current location.

"What do we know about it?"

"Private clinic. Owned by a pair of doctors, limited clientele."

"Get me financials and anything else we can use. Sarah," and Matty turned back to the monitors, "we're sending you an address. What's your level of involvement here?"

The phone shifted, moving back to the center console of the SUV, so that Agent Adler's face was half in the frame. "Right now, just me and my partner. Officially we're running down leads. Cage had concerns, asked me to keep an ear out. An American was reported missing while vacationing in Alexandroupoli, turns out she'd rented a timeshare half a mile from your villa. Found the sniper nest." She glanced at Jack. ". . . I'm just sorry I didn't get there a little sooner."

"We appreciate the assist." Matty turned to Liz without saying a word, but the woman started nodding.

"Director, it's Greece. Their healthcare system collapsed back in 2015. We'll find leverage by the time they get there."

"Charlie team just dispatched two agents. They're three hours out." Jill looked up expectantly, clearly awaiting more instructions.

Protocol dictated that as soon as the safehouse had been compromised, their agents would have ditched any phones, coms, or trackable tech, and aborted their current op. They'd make contact with Phoenix directly once they got out. If not, at least they had backup on the way.

There were only two other agents at Charlie site. The same four she'd sent to hold down the cannery had been tasked with the backup safehouse. That left her four able-bodied agents, four injured – one apparently critically - and two up in the air. Out of fourteen.

That was barely enough to get them all to exfil, let alone bring the fight to the colonel. Matty studied the map a long moment.

"Sarah, do you have anything pressing this afternoon?"

The CIA agent smiled. "Funny you should ask, my calendar just cleared up. Happy to keep an eye on the kids."

-M-

Kenan glanced at the caller ID and stepped away from the table, walking to the corner of the room rather than the hallway outside before answering.

"Liris."

"Lieutenant, you need to evacuate the colonel immediately. The Americans have everything. The major's dead. At least two of the agents are still alive, I can't track them-"

"Stop." She responded immediately, going silent, and he wondered if she had a military background of her own.

"Breathe."

There was a soft sigh. "I wiped all the data I could before I was disconnected. I can't be sure, but it doesn't look like the majority of it ever left their villa."

The lieutenant arranged all that information in his head. "You said two Americans are still alive?"

"Yes. Their tech and Bozer. Both wounded. I'm not sure about the Green Beret."

If he recalled the last surveillance report correctly, the computer tech was their youngest agent, mostly untrained. He wasn't sure they'd ever figured out which one Bozer was. "What about the woman, Cage?"

"Dead. Five confirmed."

So their senior agent was out of the picture. That was something, at least.

"What happened?"

There was a moment of silence. "I don't know. The major had control, I was still looking for data. Glass broke. I think he may have been shot from behind."

Which would mean the Americans had a sniper of their own. It was very unlikely Zhan would have missed an overwatch agent. And the last thing they needed right now was another interested party.

She'd already said she couldn't track the surviving American agents, and that was a problem. "How certain are you that you destroyed the intelligence?"

"They had everything, lieutenant. Recruitment centers. Depots. The summer home."

That wasn't what he'd asked, and he remained silent.

". . . not certain enough."

So there were still American agents, loose in Greece, who may or may not retain enough intelligence to act upon it or share it.

Her assessment was correct. They needed to evacuate the colonel.

"Thank you, Liris."

Kenan hung up the phone and turned. The colonel was still engrossed in the recruitment meeting, and the lieutenant remained where he was until Aydin acknowledged him. He jerked his head towards the hallway, and the colonel turned back to the phone and began to excuse himself.

-M-

**ROUGHLY EIGHT HOURS LATER**

"Well, it's not the villa."

Riley squinted at the bright lights in the hallway, babying the sling, and she gave the place a once-over.

Thick carpeting. Ornate molding. Benign wallpaper in ivories and burgundies. The air smelled a little stale, and vaguely like air freshener. All the rooms off the main hallway had double doors, but not the light glass of the villa. These were solid wood doors with a dark stain.

She made a face. ". . . I'm getting a serious funeral home vibe."

Bozer nodded slowly. "Yeah. This ain't right."

Not after the day they'd had.

They crossed the threshold, spotting an agent Riley didn't recognize at the end of the hall, and he gestured for them to come over. The carpeting was old, almost squishy under her feet, and all the rooms they passed seemed about the same. Large. Rectangular. Super creepy art hanging on the walls. Super old, lavish furniture.

"Agent . . . Davis?"

She almost nodded, but remembered at the last second how much it would hurt, and he reached out left-handed to shake her good hand. "Kevin Todd. Team medic. I'll be taking care of you."

He was young, no more than twenty-five, a couple inches taller than she was, with unusually light brown eyes and hair just a shade darker than Mac's. His smile was easy but reserved.

Introductions done, he turned to Bozer. "And you must be Wilt Bozer. Kevin Todd." He shook Boze's right hand, but he did it very gently. "I'm guessing you two didn't care for that car ride too much."

"You can say that again," Boze grumbled, and Kevin gave him a sympathetic look.

"Well, if you're up for it, there's some grub in the kitchen. We've made up some cots for you in the Olive Room, but I'd like to keep an eye on you for a couple more hours before you turn in."

"The Olive Room?"

Agent Todd made a little face. "You'll . . . figure it out," he said, a little lamely, and then nodded to them both again and walked past them, back towards the front of the house. Riley assumed they were bringing in Cage.

There was only one set of doors in front of them, but these were painted white. Bozer took the hint and grabbed one of the knobs, revealing a room that was definitely a kitchen.

A funeral home kitchen.

Gone were the long counters, the granite, the stainless steel appliances. She was pretty sure the stove was older than she was, and the fridge was discolored a putrid yellow. Dull, stained ceramic plates were stacked on a chair, to save the anemic counterspace, and there were a few orange pots from the 1950s that held some kind of brown sludge that may have been there almost as long.

But it didn't smell bad. In fact, despite all the painkillers and the carsickness, it kinda smelled . . .

It kinda smelled like Rio. But in a good way. Not in the urine-coated street kind of way.

"Buenos noches, viajeros." The voice was cheerful, and Riley executed a full-body turn to see a lanky, black haired Hispanic collecting used plates off a severe-looking dark pine table. "It doesn't look like much, I know, but it will fill your belly."

He stacked the dirty plates, slapping a dishtowel over his forearm like a waiter, and when he was close enough, he gave them both an exaggerated bow. "I am Alejandro De los Reyes. It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Bozer. And this is Riley."

She lifted her left hand in a little wave.

The agent carried his stack of plates to the sink, then shifted the dishtowel from his arm to his shoulder, and grabbed a clean plate. Onto it he ladled a generous portion of brown sludge, and from behind the two stewpots, a hunk of bread materialized. He handed it to Bozer, who accepted it on her behalf, and shortly a second, similar plate was produced.

"Have a seat. Stay awhile."

He guided them to the rectangular dining table, large enough to comfortably seat a dozen people. She chose one of the long benches, easing her right arm into her lap, and Bozer set a plate down in front of her once she got settled.

"Ah! And we mustn't forget the sauce," Alejandro murmured, and then Bozer lowered himself uncomfortably onto the bench beside her, and Riley stared at her plate.

And for one ridiculous minute, all she wanted to do was cry.

Their new safehouse was a funeral home. Everyone was being super nice to them. Her neck hurt, and her shoulder hurt, and her heart hurt more than both of them combined.

There was room at the table for a dozen people. But four of them were never going to sit down to dinner with them. Never again.

She was never going to hear McMurtrie's soothing audiobook voice in her ear. Micah and Bri were never going to get into another good-natured argument about whose name sounded more girlie. Gabe was never going to tease Jack about the time he got to take an SR-71 Blackbird out of mothballs for a test flight.

This morning, she ate breakfast with all those guys. And now it was dinnertime, and they were gone. The villa was gone.

Their best chance of getting Mac back – maybe of ever seeing him again – was gone.

And she couldn't remember the last thing she'd said to him. Or the last meal they'd eaten together.

"Oh, this will never do," the Hispanic agent crooned, coming around to the other side of the table holding a bottle and a stack of shot glasses. "You can't cry into gramama's estofado. It's salty enough."

She snorted – she hoped – and he waved his hand over the table, reducing the stack of shotglasses into a neat line as well as any Vegas bartender she'd ever seen.

Eight of them.

"Now." And he uncorked the bottle with a faint hollow pop. "You would not think Greece would be a good place to buy tequila. And you would be _right_ , senorita. Their tequila selection is shit."

This time she was pretty sure it was a laugh that bubbled up, and she watched him float the bottle over the line of glasses, somehow filling them all to the same height without spilling a drop on the table.

"When you have travelled as much as I have, you learn to bring your own."

He pushed two shots of a beautiful golden tequila towards them, and Riley accepted one, looking at the misty old glass. It probably belonged here in the funeral home. She could see how they would be useful for drinking one's way through a funeral.

Or four.

The double doors at the end of the kitchen opened, and Riley saw Jack hesitate a moment. Once he got his bearings, he limped in, letting the door close behind him, and helped himself to the sludge. They all waited for him, and Alejandro gave him a solemn nod as he approached. Jack clapped a hand on the other agent's shoulder as he stiffly took a seat beside him, across from Riley.

"Hola, Zee."

"Hola, mi amigo."

Alejandro slid a shot to Jack, who picked it up, also seeming to study how the tequila was so golden and clear, and the glass so cloudy.

"Kevin's not gonna be happy."

Alejandro shrugged. "This is the good stuff. It won't hurt you."

He picked up his own shot, and Jack mirrored him. Riley glanced at Bozer, then did the same. It felt a little strange in her left hand.

Alejandro raised it high. "Arriba." They obediently repeated the word.

Then he touched his glass to the table. "Abajo." Once they had done so, he picked it back up, tipping the edge towards them across the table. "Al centro." Then he grinned. "Adeeeeentrooo!"

Down the hatch it went.

Riley did the same, although she was unable to tip her head back for the bandages on her neck, and the tequila burned down her throat, leaving an impossibly clean taste in her mouth. She'd never had anything like it. It kind of tasted like cactus smelled, but also the desert, and vanilla, and just a touch like the spiced tea Bozer had been making since they'd arrived in Greece.

There was no harsh flavor of alcohol, and the burn crawled down her sore throat and slowly into her chest, relaxing tension as it went.

Jack exhaled, setting the shot glass upside down on the table. ". . . that's _nice_."

Alejandro just nodded, doing the same with his, and Riley leaned back so she could get the last drops out of her own glass, and followed suit. When in Rome . . .

She was not at all surprised when the second set of shot glasses were distributed. Across from her, Jack tried to catch her eyes, but Riley pretended not to notice, watching for a social cue from Alejandro. Jack was the worst man-child about crying in public, and she was just barely keeping it together as it was.

Under the table, someone gently tapped her toes.

Surprised, she did look at him, and his eyes were dry for once. He gave her just the tiniest of nods.

Alejandro picked up his second glass, swirling the tequila a moment. "Are we all Spanish speakers?"

Beside her, Boze gave a very careful shrug. "I wouldn't say I'm fluent."

"Well then, senor, we will say it in English." He raised his glass, and they all did the same. He clinked their glasses one at a time, in turn. "Micah. Troy. Gabriel. Brayden." He couldn't clink his own, so he toasted the bottle. "May you all be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead."

"Hooah," Jack added.

The second shot was even smoother, and no less warming.

Jack set his glass on the table, again, upside-down. "That's an Irish toast, you jackass."

Alejandro shrugged. "It sounds better in Spanish."

Even Bozer laughed a little, and Alejandro gestured to them. "Eat while it's still hot."

Riley stabbed the goo with her fork, a little fascinated to find there were some semi-solid lumps in there, and she scooped up something she really hoped was a potato and tried it.

And it was _amazing_.

Glasses of water appeared on the table as if by magic, and Riley was not at all surprised to find that when the upside down shotglasses were taken, one was replaced, upside up, and filled.

Between whatever Jack had given her – and it was the only thing that got her through the car ride to the clinic – and whatever the surgeon had given her to numb her shoulder, she knew the alcohol was a bad idea. Her head was pounding, it had been since the transfusion. The two bags of saline after hadn't really helped, it felt like half her blood right now had to have been straight water.

The tequila should have been going straight to her head. But it didn't make her weepy. It didn't give her a buzz. It just . . .

It just warmed her.

The plate of stew was gone before she even noticed, and she used the bread to wipe up the gravy. Beside her, Bozer pushed his very clean plate away with a happy sigh, and Jack sat across from them, for once eating like an adult, and actually chewing his food.

. .. which was a little weird.

"You okay, old man?"

She got a raised eyebrow, and he uncharacteristically decided to finish the bite instead of talking with his mouth full.

Bozer glanced back towards the kitchen door. "Is Sarah not comin'?"

Jack swallowed, and chased it with a little tequila. "She headed back to Alexandroupoli to meet up with her partner." It seemed like he was going to say more, but apparently thought better of it, and swapped to the water.

To meet up with her partner, who was securing the villa and making sure their agents made it onto a plane and home.

Riley took a drink of water herself, to wash down the lump in her throat. "How's Cage?"

"Settled." Jack picked up a piece of bread and started shredding it into his food. "That's right, you were asleep. They got most of it out. Still a piece in her neck, too close to her spine for the docs here. They sent everything back to Phoenix." Once he'd made a shredded bread pile, he stirred it around in the goo, congealing it enough to be forkable.

She was a little fuzzy on the details, Bozer had been too busy shoving her into Adler's SUV, and she'd been so absorbed in the laptop . . .

"But everyone was wearing vests." She looked up at Jack, somehow not surprised to see that he was just pushing his food around the plate instead of eating it. "I thought the whole point . . ."

Was to prevent them from getting killed by snipers.

Jack gave a shallow sigh. "Sarah's got the rifle, I'll show it to you when she gets back. It's designed to take down targets behind concrete. The rounds were anti-personnel – means armor piercing. So were the ones in his pistol," he added, looking Bozer up and down. "I know they ain't comfortable, but that vest saved your ass."

"Yeah." Boze didn't sound impressed. "My ass is great. It's my ribs that are busted." He straightened a little, groaning.

Jack gave him a little shrug. ". . . Boze, why the hell didn't you come get me?"

Riley was completely blind-sided by the question. But Bozer seemed to be on the same page, because he met Jack's eyes squarely.

"Man, I don't know." He pressed his lips together a moment, and then he picked up his tequila and downed it. His swallow was loud in the sudden silence, and he idly played with the empty glass.

"I mean, I wasn't on coms. I was just doin' my thing, makin' a couple sandwiches–" and for some reason he gave Jack a hard look, "- and I figured McMurtrie and Micah would eat outside. I never heard a thing. When I walked into the hall . . ." His eyebrows gathered, and he shook his head a little. "I didn't even think. I just went back into the kitchen for a gun. Figured . . . whoever it was was right there. That if I didn't do something, they'd just go right upstairs."

Riley would have given him a little shoulder nudge if he hadn't been sitting to her right. He'd been correct, after all; that was exactly what the bastard had done.

Bozer dropped his eyes to the table. "When he came around the corner, I . . . I didn't do anything. I thought it was one of us."

Jack was quiet a moment. "You can't take back a bullet." He set his fork down on his still half-full plate. "Always look before you shoot. Never beat yourself up for that."

"Yeah, but-"

"Yeah but nothin'. The only thing that woulda changed is he'd have put you down permanent instead of leavin' you for me to find."

Bozer gave his empty shotglass a mild glare, and set one edge on the table, rolling it between his fingers. ". . . I can't help thinkin' about what he said. 'Your friend's called out for you.' He knew my name, Jack." Bozer looked up, and his eyes were troubled. "When you said my name, he recognized it."

Jack didn't respond, and for a long moment his words hung heavy in the air.

"They had access to our network." Riley was a little surprised to hear her own voice. "They hacked our phones, Boze. They were listening to us. He was fucking with you, that's all."

She might have only known them all for a couple years, but there was no planet, in any universe, where Mac would have said anything that could endanger Bozer. There just wasn't.

"It's more than that." Jack eased himself back from the table with a quiet hiss. "They knew about the Phoenix Foundation. They'd been watching us for days. Probably tailed you back after you picked me up. They followed our tracker and blew the cannery to make us think they'd taken the bait, but I'll bet that's when they got us."

He swore, quietly, and downed his tequila as well.

So self-recrimination was apparently contagious. Because it was her dumb ass that hadn't realized Micah's phone had been cloned, not hacked. If she'd figured it out two days ago, they'd have known. They could have set a trap, they could have just run, they could've –

Not wanting to be the odd woman out, Riley sipped her own shot.

"And that's the difference between a lady and a grunt," a familiar voice drawled, and Riley saw that the double door to the kitchen was open, and two strange Turkish men were staring at them.

Bozer gave a relieved shout. " _Yes_!"

Jack swung one leg over the bench, and he waited for both the agents to walk over before they gave each other the usual greeting of a hand grasp and some kind of friendly beating.

Riley, for her part, grinned like a loon. "God, it's good to see you guys."

Saito was grinning too, though his eyes were flicking between them doubtfully. "Looks like we had an easier time of it than you did." The Japanese-turned-Turkish agent came around to their side of the table and put Bozer in an affectionate headlock. "Walked these faces right past 'em. Thank you, brother."

John Tunne did the same, though he was a little less exuberant than Saito. "You're a lifesaver, dude. Seriously."

Saito's greeting to her was much more gentle – he put a hand on top of her head and planted a kiss on her left temple. "You scared me, girl. Glad to see you in one piece."

She turned at the waist to give him a smile, and John took his place and put his huge hand on her left shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze. "Ditto."

"Yeah," and she reached up and patted his hand. "You should try the sludge. It's not too bad."

Soon they had also acquired stew – and tequila – and another round was dedicated to the agents they had lost. Somewhere along the way Alejandro had managed to refill her glass, too. He was a sneaky little dude.

"Are you kidding me?!"

All eyes went back to the door, where their medic was pointing accusingly at the half-empty bottle of tequila, still in Alejandro's hand.

The Hispanic agent continued pouring it like nothing had happened. Jack managed an innocent look. "Oh, were we not supposed to mix narcotics with alcohol?" He spread his hands helplessly. "You shoulda said something, man. We didn't know."

Kevin strode rapidly across the kitchen, snatching the shotglass out from in front of Jack and glaring daggers. Then he downed it, and pointed the empty at Alejandro. "How behind am I?"

The other agent simply held up the bottle, so he could see the damage.

"Dammit. There better be another." He swatted Jack on the shoulder with the back of his other hand. "You. Up. Now."

Jack scowled but stiffly did as he was told. "Your bedside manner's gotten better."

"Yeah, you say that now . . ."

Riley watched the two of them leave, and turned back to the table in time to wave off her personal bartender. "I'm already floating, dude. I was kinda hoping to be useful tomorrow."

Alejandro's eyebrows drifted upwards. "You are alma hermosa. A beautiful soul. But what you are not is invulnerable. You look like you went three rounds with Dracula. Let Alejandro worry about tomorrow."

"Hold up, Zee." Saito leaned forward against the table, fishing around in a back pocket. "Don't underestimate her. She's more than a pretty face."

Riley thought about that for a moment, and then she smiled, and pulled out one of Cage's slow blinks. "You think I'm pretty?"

The agent laughed outright, freeing something about the size of his hand. "Before I answer that, is Jack still in the building?"

"Hold up, I know you ain't makin' a move on my girl . . ."

Riley just shook her head as the agents started hooting. Jack probably _could_ hear it, wherever Kevin had hauled him off to.

She glanced at his half-full plate again, still sitting on the table, and then Saito reached across the table. "I know we can't put the battery back without it being trackable, but-"

He was holding a cellphone. An old flip phone.

No. Not an old one. A new one. It was silver, and barely scuffed.

Riley accepted it, and then the battery, staring at it a moment before looking up at him. Surely he wasn't –

"Is this –"

The phone Jack had taken off the dead Turk in the villa had been wiped by the time he'd gotten to it, but it was a smartphone. If they'd managed to take out the battery in this flip phone before someone remotely wiped it, then they might actually have a shot at getting active phone numbers for Aydin's men.

Saito nodded. "John swiped it off one of the uniforms."

John Tunne stuck his head out around Saito. "By swiped, he means I took down three guys while he was – you know, I don't even know what the fuck you were doing."

The Japanese agent turned very deliberately to face the other agent. "Oh let's see, was that when –"

Riley tuned them out, shoving her plate out of the way. It was difficult to manipulate the phone left-handed, so she grabbed her fork and used the tines to pry off the back cover. With that gone, the board was exposed, and she tilted it towards the light, examining it a moment before she set it down, and used the fork to stab a small goldenrod chip.

She pried out the innards, just to be on the safe side, and then she pushed the battery back in.

"Hold up – Riley, is that-"

"I disabled the GPS," she cut Boze off, and powered on the phone.

The old flip phones did a slow POST in comparison to smartphones, it was old tech, and she got it into airplane mode before it could contact a cell tower. She confirmed it, and then accessed the address book.

Only two contacts.

"I need a laptop," she said, and then she realized how quiet it was. Riley glanced up, to see everyone staring at her.

John still had his head stuck out, past Saito, so he could see. "Did you just hack a phone with a fork?"

She glanced between them. ". . .laptop? Today?"

Two hands came down from above and gently took the phone away.

Riley was too surprised to do anything, and she couldn't very well tilt her head up and look. But she didn't need to; Alejandro took the seat to her left, a powerbook in hand. He gave her a sly grin.

"I, too, am more than a pretty face."

He looked pointedly at her sling, and then laced his fingers together, cracking them. He was already logged into Phoenix systems, and he input the two phone numbers, using the Turkish country code.

One of them popped up, on the E84, traveling east towards Tekirdag. Probably moving between the recruiting center in Kesan and the fish market Dooku had bought.

It took a moment, but the second one also popped up, and Riley didn't need her map to know what property it was. It was out in the middle of nowhere, on the wrong side of the Sea of Marmara.

"Bumfuck," she said simply.

The recruiting centers needed to stay in contact with the mother ship. The colonel could have been anywhere, but the main base of operations was going to be harder to move. After following Aydin's men back from the cannery, they'd narrowed down the properties most likely to have Mac to either the recruiting center in Kesan, or that summer home that had been purchased by Colonel Aydin's second cousin, right before the coup.

Bozer was leaning so close to her that she could feel his breath on her ear. "Holy shit. You think Mac's . . .?"

She raised her eyes to John and Saito, and John gave her a solemn nod. "We didn't see any sign of him in Kesan. And we ended up on most of the floors of most of those buildings, so . . ."

So it put Mac about a hundred miles as the crow flew from them. He'd been even closer when they'd been in Alexandroupoli.

Her left hand was snaking towards the keyboard before she remembered it wasn't hers. "Can you pull up a satellite?"

Alejandro looked mortally offended. "Why yes, Director Matilda."

Their protocol was to ditch all their tech, bail on their op, and split if they were compromised. Which was exactly what they'd just finished doing. The colonel's men would probably do the same. They knew Phoenix had intel on them, they saw exactly how much, and whoever had been on coms with that Turkish bastard knew that at least one of them had survived.

If they didn't get to Mac before that summer house emptied out, then the phone they were tracking was going to be ditched, and –

And then they'd lose him.

Riley knew it would take a few minutes, to either retask one of their satellites or to borrow someone else's, and so she leaned back – slowly to give Bozer time to get out of her space – and stood up.

Remarkably, she was relatively steady on her feet. Alejandro had clearly been thinking that wouldn't be the case, because he reached out to steady her, if she needed it, but then he just raised an eyebrow.

"Consider me impressed, senorita."

She flashed him a grin and crossed the kitchen, pulling open the door left-handed and staring down the long hallway. Most of the doors were open, so she picked the closed one on the left, and she hit paydirt on the first try.

It was pretty obvious why it was called the Olive Room. And it wasn't because it reminded one of the Olive Garden.

A horrible olive grove mural had been painted across the walls, floor to ceiling, broken up only by an off white chair rail. Five bright, hideous chandeliers burned away any shadows, but somehow the room still managed to look gloomy. There were six cots in the room, with plenty of space around them.

The one that grabbed her attention was in the middle of the room. Jack was lying on it, one arm thrown carelessly over his eyes, and Kevin Todd was seated beside him. Jack's shirt was missing, and –

Riley stopped in the doorway, but the damage was done, and Kevin glanced over his shoulder before he cleared his throat.

"You have a visitor."

He didn't get up to greet her; his hands were sheathed in stained blue latex, holding suture needle and thread. A trashcan beside him was full of paper and bloody gauze.

She hadn't really seen much of Jack's injury back at the villa. The doctor had treated him, and he was always clean and wrapped up. Under the funeral home chandelier, he looked like one of Bozer's horror cadavers. Black stiches crossed his abdomen here and there in broken lines, connected by deep red, puckered, half-healed skin. He'd been sliced up just above where his waistband would have been if it hadn't been lowered to make space. Even where the bullet hadn't cut him, the skin didn't look like skin, it was too shiny, too puffy and pale, and the old, green-black bruises now competed with fresh red ones. The swelling went all the way up to his bottom ribs.

Jack didn't move, and Riley was distantly glad that he was still wearing his pants, however low, and she hadn't just accidentally re-enacted the Frostbutt Incident.

Riley bit her lip, and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. It was pretty clear he hadn't wanted anyone to see. "Uh . . . Saito and John got a phone off one of Aydin's men. We're pretty sure Mac's in Bumfuck. Alejandro is getting us eyes."

The two men by the cot were quiet, and then Jack started to chuckle. Kevin adjusted his hands so the quivering suture thread didn't pull.

"You never did knock, even as a kid. Used to drive Diane crazy-"

"Okay, whoa, let's just stop there." She appreciated that he was trying to lighten the mood, but that wasn't going to help.

Kevin looked between the two of them, then bent back to his work. "Is bumfuck a proper place, or . . .?"

"It's a summer home one of Colonel Aydin's relatives purchased before the coup," she supplied. "It's about a hundred miles southeast." It suddenly occurred to her that she should stop talking.

Because there was no way someone who looked like that could go up against more people like the one from this morning. There was no way someone who looked like that could walk.

Let alone take three bullets for her. Even wearing a vest that didn't look like it had done him any more good than Cage's had done her.

Jack sighed shallowly, only moving his upper chest. "Good work. I'll be there in a minute."

She would have nodded if her own wounds would have let her. ". . . yeah."

Riley backed out of the room instead of turning, and drew the viewing room doors gently closed.

-M-

So you were all spared the cliffie, thanks to **kuku25** , who kinda liked Saito, and has been awesome about asking questions, so I decided to keep him alive as a thank you to her. Thus our heroes are now a little buzzed and, when all seemed lost, have a lifeline to Mac. And a ticking clock.

Cage's fate will be explained next chapter, along with that cliffie I warned you about.

Thanks again, all of you, for all the encouragement. I'm probably going to regret this, but I'll put it out to you: I can either tie everything up in a neat little bow, or leave room for a sequel. The catch is, this was all for NaNoWriMo, and I don't have time to keep doing this, so if there was a sequel, it wouldn't be anytime soon.

Should I leave it open for a sequel, or should I wrap it up nice and neat?

Addendum: I have noticed that the fandom is pretty good about loaning each other their toys. Nurse Sally, Jack and Mac's military handles of Tombstone and Shepherd, respectively, etc. If I did leave this up for a sequel, would someone else want to play in this little world?


	16. Chapter 16

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

The doors closed softly, and Jack didn't move.

Kevin did what he needed to do, he was quiet and it didn't hurt much. Left him nothing to do but think. And count.

Saito and John didn't make their own way back – they'd gotten picked up. So Benjy and Alley were probably ditching their wheels to make sure Aydin's goons hadn't tailed them. Again. He knew Zee and Kevin would be in. Probably Sarah, too. She hadn't mentioned her partner's name.

Hadn't said much to him at all, really. He supposed there wasn't much to say.

Jack winced. What the hell was her husband's name? Jim? Jacob?

"Sorry, Jack."

"Not you," he muttered. Shit. They'd even gone to the wedding, Sarah was going to kick his ass. Mac would remember –

"How's your pain?"

Jack Dalton had to fight back a surge of irrational anger. "I am getting very tired of people askin' me that."

"Well," and he heard something heavy land in the trash can, "You should probably stop getting shot then. Maybe take a day off."

He bared his teeth. "Like, say, tomorrow?"

" . . . that'd be a good start." Jack flinched a little when light fingertips found a particularly sensitive spot. "But, we all know you well enough to know that's not going to happen."

"Nope." No it wasn't. Because tomorrow, they had a rescue to execute. They had the closest they were ever going to get on a definitive location, within range, and a very short timeframe to respond.

Kenan, if he was anything like the guy Jack had known back in Afghanistan, was going to take the loss of his man personally. Keeping Mac alive had just gotten really expensive. There was no guarantee they weren't going to take that loss out on Mac, or decide he just wasn't worth the trouble.

"So by my count, we've got seven."

Jack was mollified to know that Kevin was on the same page. "Eight," he corrected. "Sarah'll volunteer for overwatch. Got herself a shiny new toy."

"Sweet." Something tugged at that sensitive spot, and Jack actually lifted his arm and picked up his head to glare.

Kevin finished tying off the suture. "Doc did a pretty good job. You'll hold together, more or less."

Jack let his head fall back onto the pillow. That was more or less good enough. "Thanks."

"I'll tape you up like I mean it later." The medic hesitated. ". . . I'll grant you, it looks worse than it actually is. For once," he added darkly. "But you've got a lot of soft tissue damage here, Dalton. You can't take another hit. I'm talking major surgery and a shitbag."

Awesome. ". . . see? Your bedside manner is _way_ better."

The younger man snorted, peeling off the latex gloves. "Must be mellowing in my old age."

Jack tried not to think about the fact that Kevin and Mac had been born the same year. Which was way the hell after he'd graduated high school. They had a lot in common. Crazy smart. Good at their jobs. Just good in general.

Didn't know each other, as far as Jack was aware. And he knew that didn't matter – Kevin had already counted himself as one of the agents that was coming with him.

"I'm gonna need to be able to move."

"I know." Kevin didn't sound happy. "When you do crash, you're gonna go down hard. You get that, right?"

When he crashed – figurative - it would be on a plane, with his team – his entire team – on their way back to the Phoenix. He could deal with it then. "Yeah, yeah."

Kevin started digging around in his bag, and Jack carefully maneuvered himself back into a sitting position. He accepted a couple faded pink pills, swallowing them dry, and the other agent passed him a clean shirt.

"Well, then I guess we should get this show on the road. Oh, your leg-"

Jack waved him off. "Didn't take a hit. It's fine."

He accepted a helping hand up, and Kevin tucked his medical bag against the wall behind one of the doors. "I got the images on Cage. What'd that bullet hit?"

"You mean before it hit her?" The hallway was empty, Riley was long gone, and Jack glanced towards the office, which was where they'd tucked Samantha. "Wrought iron corner of a bookcase."

They were lucky everything in that villa had been the real deal. If that furniture had been a cheap knock-off, the decorative corners on the bookcase frames would have been cast iron, and that bullet would have shattered it like crispy bacon and continued on its merry way. Wrought iron was a much tougher material, and it had absorbed a lot of energy before it failed.

It was hard to say how many fragments that bullet had broken into. Her vest had caught a couple, and it had let a couple through. And then there were the two that stayed on target.

The one behind her right ear had apparently missed anything important, but the one in her neck was another matter altogether. The Greek docs hadn't been willing to go digging for it. It might not matter – they couldn't say for certain what the damage was, so she could be anywhere from perfectly fine to paralyzed from the neck down.

She hadn't regained consciousness yet, so they couldn't ask her. The two pieces in her chest had ended up in her right lung, but they were pretty small and slow, all things considered, and they'd been successfully removed. Barring any additional shit going wrong, it looked like she'd pull through.

The only damn thing that had saved any of them was dumb luck.

Kevin made it to the kitchen before he did, and Jack saw that Alley and Benjy were indeed back, and just getting settled. All eyes were on Alejandro – which Jack just couldn't say with a straight face, so he'd just always stuck with Zee - who had the laptop, and Riley was co-piloting. Saito and John had saved his seat.

Zee nodded a greeting. "They're pulling out. Looks like they're trying to use cover of darkness, and wrap it up before morning."

Which was exactly what Jack would have done in their shoes. "Any sign of Aydin?"

The Hispanic agent shrugged. "Unless he has an A tattooed on the top of his head, I don't think we can know that."

"Actually, sometimes he looks up at the sky and waves."

Alejandro glanced to his right, at Riley, and she tilted her head at the laptop. "True story."

"How far along are they?"

"Also hard to say." Zee turned the laptop, so they could all see what he was looking at, and there was minimal activity. One jeep at a time would come up the drive, get loaded, and bail. If you weren't watching the property closely, you wouldn't notice how rapidly they were able to turn over the vehicles.

Clearly they were aware they might be under surveillance, and they were trying to minimize drawing attention to themselves.

That worked in their favor. Having to load up one vehicle at a time would slow them down. "Any sign of Mac?"

Alejandro shook his head. "Not while we've been watching."

So they would proceed as if he was still there. "Riley, did we do any kind of security analysis on that property?"

"Just the basics." She bent forward, unable to turn her head, and she used the corner of her eye to direct her left hand. "Three roads in, two of which are branches of the same main road about two miles out. There's always a helo on the pad, can't be sure it's the same one. I remember where I found the architecture diagrams, so we can get those back."

"Can you get network access?" It was John.

Her lips thinned. "No. I might have been able to if we'd pulled off the Kesan op, but this place is pretty isolated. There's no way their tech hasn't already backdoored the ISP out there. If I had a couple days, I might be able to work around him, but not in a couple hours."

"They might be pulling their tech, anyway," Saito mused. "If they know what we had, they know how we got it. Doukas was the major financier for all of this. It's not like they can afford to leave all that equipment behind."

"How far out's their perimeter?"

"Half a mile."

Pretty standard. And if they were pulling their tech, they'd have to rely on human defenses.

However, they clearly had plenty of humans in the house, packing up all their gear. A full on assault, with seven agents on the ground and one on overwatch . . . that wasn't going to end well. They were going to have to rely on stealth and surprise.

And Jack was _damn_ sure the colonel was going to be surprised.

He caught Zee's eyes. "How much gear do you have on site?"

Alley cleared her throat, and Jack turned to his right, and gave the red-headed agent a mild look. "Didn't mean to step on your toes, Alleycat, I just thought maybe you'd changed it up for once-"

Allison Doyle was, as far as he knew, the only full-blooded Irish agent they had, in her late thirties and one of their more impressive recruitment success stories. She'd been essentially raised by the IRA, and she made Riley's prison record look like community service in comparison.

"Zee would've left it all in the cannery if not for the rest of us," she snapped good-naturedly. "It's good to see ya, Jack."

"Yeah, you and Benjy both." The other Charlie site agent, Benjamin Hines, was the least likely looking man in the world for the job. Put him on a street corner in ripped up clothes and a few trash bags, and he looked right at home. He'd grown out the brown beard quite a bit since the last time Jack had laid eyes on him, but his faded blue eyes were still plenty sharp under overgrown eyebrows.

"We've got enough night gear for six."

So black tacs, night vision, and associated quiet weaponry. With Sarah on overwatch, that meant just one of them would have to cobble together a kit from whatever else they had on them.

"That's cool. I'm guessing we don't want the distraction to be too hard to see." Saito glanced around the table. "Only way I see this going down is three taking fire, one up top, and four in the house."

Jack glanced around the table, confirming. "Do we have any aircraft?"

"We're three miles from a regional airstrip." Kevin glanced around at the kitchen they were in. "Why else do you think we ended up in this dump?"

"So . . . this _is_ an old funeral home, right?"

Alley laughed sharply. "Aye. But for the last five or so years, it's been shut down. Used for human trafficking instead. What with that airstrip so close and all."

"Lovely," John murmured. "Guess it's a good thing none of us were planning on sleeping."

Jack glanced at Riley, unsurprised to see that she was also watching him. He actually did hope she got a little shut-eye, but her expression told him that just wasn't going to happen.

"Everyone good with this?" Without knowing enemy numbers, without knowing if the colonel was even on premise, having only the most basic security analysis, limited tech support, and no backup – there was no doubt every single one of them was putting their life on the line. And not all these agents knew Mac personally. It was a lot to ask.

But he could see immediately that didn't matter. Aydin's guys had come into their house, and killed four of their own. He got eyes, and that was all the assurance he needed.

Now they just had to sell it to Matty.

Jack had a feeling he already knew how that conversation was going to go.

-M-

"Director . . . " Bosch was paging through what Liz had sent. "Nothing I see here adds up to solid intel that the colonel's actually on premise."

"Both of the phones my agents are tracking are now in the same place." Frankly, that was about as damning as it got when foreign militias were involved. "Satellite imaging confirms a massive pullout is underway. This is clearly the main base of operations. If we don't move now, we're going to lose Aydin."

The other woman set down the reports and gave the camera a steely glare. "Aydin isn't what this is about and we both know that."

Matty was only too happy to give it right back to her. "I just lost seven agents. I won't deny that I'm going to do my damndest to make sure it's not eight. It may not be my organization's charter to turn the political tides of countries, but the only way that colonel is leaving Turkey is in cuffs or a bag."

"We-can't-bring-him-in." She enunciated every syllable. "The US cannot be seen as controlling the political climate of an ally."

Matty made a dismissive gesture. "Then we'll put a bow on him and leave him for NATO. Will that make you happy?"

"If he's actually there? Yes. That would make me happy." She leaned on her elbows on the desk. "Nothing would make me happier than you getting the rest of your agents back in one piece – MacGyver included. I'm not the enemy here, Matilda."

That remained to be seen. "But?"

Bosch shook her head slowly. "But. If the colonel's not there, and this move sends him running to a non-NATO country, then we've got Syria all over again."

Matty mentally paged through the cards she had left to play. Jack Dalton had infuriatingly left her with very few. "My agents think they can identify other recruitment centers. Worst case, we can cut off the militia's growth."

"Oh really?" Bosch threw up her hands. "What will you tell me next? You know how he's being funded?" When Matty didn't change her expression, the other woman gave her a look of sheer disbelief. "If you have that level of intelligence on Colonel Ayden's activities, and you intentionally compartmentalized it from us –"

"You'll what." Matty left her expression mild. "Admit that you've been doing the same thing? That you've been working with Turkish intelligence under the covers, that they already know we had agents on the ground, that you were in communication with them the entire time to spirit Chevalier and family out of Turkey?"

Much as Matty was loathe to admit it, Samantha Bosch was a director not because it had been convenient for her bosses, but because she knew how the game was played. She was unhappy, and she was unhappy because she thought Aydin was going to get away, and the US would be blamed for it. That all seemed to be sincere.

It was all the shit in the middle that Matty still couldn't quite get her arms around. How the intel from the very beginning had been so wrong. How two weeks in, Turkish intelligence didn't know half of what her agents had managed to uncover. The best she could do at this point was give everyone a different piece of the puzzle and see what Aydin ended up with.

Samantha just glared at her, and Matty sighed. "Fine. I'll have my agents hold off until they can confirm through surveillance whether Aydin is really there or not. If not, we'll plant trackers on the vehicles and see where they end up."

"How pragmatic of you."

"Either way, once we get confirmation we're going in for our agent."

Bosch continued her glare for a moment, and then she gave a tiny nod, and disconnected.

Matty stared at the empty window a long moment, then glanced at the couch. Liz was still sitting there, watching her expectantly.

She gave the analyst a firm nod. At least this op was going down at a reasonable hour in the US. It was around 5 pm in LA, meaning it was around 4 am in Istanbul.

Or, as Riley had put it, Bumfuck.

Fortunately for her, it was only 8 pm in DC. Otherwise, she'd have to call the NATO Strategic Commander on his personal phone, and she didn't think he'd be too happy about that.

Liz was able to make a connection, though all they saw was an empty office. Apparently a lackey had to go track Ives down. Matty decided to set a casual atmosphere, and helped herself to a tumbler and something delicious that was over one hundred proof – but not too much over.

She poured a second glass, for Liz. The girl was solid, she had some meat on her bones, and Matty had a feeling they were both going to need it before the night was over.

It took the ensign a few minutes to pull Ives out of whatever engagement he'd been occupying, and he was still in uniform and a little amused looking when he took his seat in the wing-backed chair behind his desk.

"Director," he greeted her, his voice indicating surprise. "And without your State Department minder. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He made it sound as if it actually was, and Matty graced him with a genuine smile.

She didn't really care for NATO, but she _definitely_ liked this guy. "I was hoping you'd received our final report on the Raytheon breach."

His eyes twinkled. "We did, little lady. You set some minds at ease."

The way he said it had her narrowing her eyes playfully. ". . . but not yours."

His mustache twitched. "Call me old fashioned. Unless you've caught the man holding the gun, that robbery could have gone a hundred different ways."

It was hard to say if that was a euphemism for the actual theft at Camp Bondsteel, or an old West reference. "You have concerns?"

"I wasn't born yesterday."

She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue, and the mustache twitched again.

"Let's cut the bull. You're not a think tank. The State Department engaged you to clean up their little mess, and you got into a little mess of your own."

Not completely incorrect. His eyes looked a little more shrewd, and she stayed silent, happy to let him continue.

He shook his head a little, reminding her suddenly of Noble Willingham. "I'm not interested in playing stablehand here, little lady."

"I'm not asking you to." She took a sip of scotch, taking a moment to really enjoy it. "What if I gave you Batuhan Aydin?"

His white eyebrows shot towards the ceiling, and he settled in his wingbacked chair. "Well, then I guess we'd take him to the Hague. Turkey's a founding member, if you recall your history."

She did. "And how big would my little mess seem, in comparison?"

The mustache stretched out like a sunbathing cat. "Well, now, that's a good question. I guess it would depend if your mess had anything to do with my base being robbed."

Matty cocked her head to the side. She was pretty sure their report had made it crystal clear that the Raytheon hack had come from someone in either Turkish intelligence, or the State Department itself. They'd flat out stated in their summary that North Korea had been framed by another interested party.

"You know, I got the most interesting email, about ten minutes ago." He nodded to himself. "Your State Department seems to think a rogue US agent is working with the colonel, and gave them the keys to my base. That . . . wouldn't be part of your little mess, would it?"

. . . she'd been on camera with Bosch for the past twenty minutes. The woman had never touched her computer.

Bosch wasn't the leak.

"It wouldn't," she stated flatly. "My little mess doesn't have that kind of . . . chutzpah."

Ives grinned broadly enough that the mustache couldn't sufficiently expand to hide it. "Well, little lady, you being a think tank and all . . . the colonel's been pretty creative."

The damn transponder.

Matty gave him a measuring look. "You know, you're right. Tracking your fleet like that, while not being trackable himself. That was pretty clever."

"Mm."

"But you know the funny part?" She took another sip of scotch. "That diagnostic code . . . no, nevermind."

He gestured to the camera. "Oh, no, do go on."

She shrugged, and made a show of walking in a slow circle, holding her scotch. "You know, it just struck me. Same date that my husband died. He'd been ill." She took another sip. "Not long, just a few weeks."

The commander gave a slow nod. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She shrugged again. "Well, he was a giant pain in my ass."

The mustache twitched. "Trouble in paradise?"

She pursed her lips, then shook her head with a fond smile. "No. I never doubted his fidelity. Not once."

The Strategic Commander cocked his head, and he really looked at her. Matty looked back. It was clear he knew exactly what she hadn't said.

That transponder signal was from one of her agents, and she didn't question his loyalty. Not for one second.

"Well, now, that's a fine thing," Ives finally drawled. "But you know, my mamaw had a saying, I'm pretty sure one of you US contractors slapped a copyright on. Trust, but verify."

She laughed quietly. "Oh yes. As you said earlier, I wasn't born yesterday."

Ives' eyes were still twinkling. "Well, all things being equal, I'd say we have a decision to make. Your little mess in comparison with a rogue separatist colonel . . . on the surface, that seems pretty straightforward."

She inclined her head. "I agree."

He sighed deeply through his nose. "I just wish I knew why your State Department had such a different perspective."

She let her gaze harden. "So do I."

One of his eyebrows raised. "Well, then, little lady, it seems to me that you have two little messes that need cleaning up." He pulled his uniform straight. "I told you earlier, I'm not interested in being the janitor. You let me know when you've got all that figured out."

He gave her a nod, and the connection cut.

-M-

"Status."

His lieutenant kept stride with him easily. "We'll be cleared before dawn. The house will be destroyed before NATO forces arrive."

Aydin took his second left, entering the library. "And what is your confidence factor in this intelligence?"

Kenan didn't blink. "Very high. Our contact at the US State Department has confirmed it."

The library was one of his favorite rooms. It contained texts that couldn't be found anywhere but in private collections, and it was very clear that he couldn't take them with him. He would have preferred to leave them intact, for the townspeople to enjoy in his absence, but that was impossible now.

All thanks to the Americans.

Aydin took a slow look around the room, trying to memorize it.

"It's time to go, sir."

" . . . yes, I should run, shouldn't I." It was time to have this conversation, though in truth he'd been putting it off for hours. It was very early in the morning, but an hour before sunrise, and he knew what that meant. "Flee my own country, lest I become a martyr."

Lieutenant Kenan said nothing, on his right, always on his right, and Batuhan growled to himself and walked to the magnificent olivewood desk. It was a lightly colored wood, with unpredictable, dark whorls and knots, and it was an absolute crime that it was to be buried in the rest of the house.

So many distasteful things to be done, and this one of the worst.

He stroked the desktop with his fingertips, imagining the craftsman doing the same. "This was avoidable."

The lieutenant said nothing.

There wasn't much he _could_ say. "The Americans were too persistent, all along." He gusted a deep sigh. "Why didn't I see it?"

Kenan waited a respectful amount of time before responding. "The level of their intelligence was unknown until a day ago-"

"Oh, that's not true," he interrupted. "When did Liris detect their search? It was over a week ago. I could look it up on the news."

Kenan was silent.

This was hard. Harder than it should have been.

". . . I told you to use your best judgement, lieutenant."

And anyone's best judgement would have been to kill the American agent and end the agency's meddling. They had a man inside the State Department. It was all they needed.

"I did, sir."

Aydin felt himself smile.

"I have seen your best, lieutenant, and this was not it."

He turned, gracing Kenan with a look, and the lieutenant didn't flinch. He met him halfway.

"You wanted this to be bloodless. I respect that, but it wasn't a requirement."

Aydin pulled himself up short in surprise. "Oh? And who sets your requirements, lieutenant?"

Kenan just watched him. "You do, sir. Your requirements were clear. The people above all else."

The colonel regarded Kenan for a moment. "So, killing the sons and daughters of our families – well meaning but misled soldiers – what, they no longer count as people?"

"A few soldiers are nothing in the greater scheme. Erdogan kills twice as many in a day." Kenan's eyes were steel. "Once we took the life of Chevalier and his family, this ceased to be bloodless. If you lose momentum now, you lose the war."

Aydin considered that for a moment. "That's not your decision to make."

"All due respect, you're not capable of making it." He stood there, totally fearless, his hands behind him in parade rest. "Our mission is to protect you and make sure you succeed. Once the coup failed, this couldn't. The general's support is not enough. Your popularity is not enough. Erdogan's reach is too strong and too far. We needed the Americans. We needed their resources and intel. It didn't pan out, but it should have. It was a risk worth taking."

Aydin closed his eyes. Of all the reasons, he had never anticipated this one. " . . . that was not your decision to make."

He heard the other man exhale. "It was the right decision, and I would make it again."

Aydin nodded, and took a breath. Then he drew his sidearm and put a bullet in the lieutenant's head.

Kenan didn't look surprised, even in death, and the colonel holstered his weapon, and walked to the far bookshelf. There was one text, in a light beige cover, that he simply couldn't leave behind.

The door behind him burst open, no doubt in response to the weapons fire, and he didn't turn, his fingers walking along the bindings until he located the correct volume. It was a book of poetry. Normally he considered the form downright condescending, but this particular tome had been written by a general, almost two hundred years ago, and he found a certain truth in the words that simple nonfiction couldn't contain as concisely.

Book in hand, he turned, finding a recruit standing in the doorway, weapon drawn. The colonel gave the man a mild look.

"Use it or put it away," he advised, and the weapon was holstered at once. The man glanced between the body on the floor and him, then simply turned on his heels and walked back into the hallway.

Aydin did the same. The house would bury the lieutenant. And he would appreciate the library in death, since none alive would visit it again.

Poetry just didn't seem Kenan's style.

Aydin proceeded down the hallway to the grand staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. The second floor showed much less activity than the first. Everything here had been storage, and much of it was to be lost. The colonel took the secondary stairwell to the third story, which was even more desolate.

It was one of the few remaining portions of the original hissar, and it was a true transgression against their ancestors to destroy it. He recalled his conversation with the American, so many days ago. When he had told the analyst that they were at the museum to destroy their heritage, like so many other barbarians before them.

It was almost worth leaving the tower. But realism won out.

It always did.

A few recruits were placing charges down the empty hallway, and the second lieutenant was overseeing their activity. He gave the colonel a respectful nod, and Aydin returned it.

"How go preparations?"

Second Lieutenant Cenk visibly weighed his answer. "This floor is basically finished, sir. Second floor will take around ten more minutes."

The colonel sighed softly. Well within the required timeframe. "And the men?"

"We'll roll out on schedule."

He gave the soldier a grunt of approval.

Cenk followed his gaze, which had fallen towards the prayer room, far down the hall. "Are we taking the American agent with us?"

The American, that had given so much and taken so much more. Men he considered friends. "The Americans seem to miss him terribly. It is time we returned him."

The second lieutenant inclined his head.

"Make sure he is recognizable." The house would collapse from the top down. It would put his corpse near the surface, one of the first to be found. Perhaps even in the first twenty-four hours.

Cenk nodded again, and then headed down the hallway.

-M-

There was very little ambiguity in the order, and the second lieutenant used the trip down the long hallway to check on the recruits. Demolition wasn't really his thing – this was more Zhan's wheelhouse, but the major was no longer with them, and Cenk had a sneaky suspicion that TNT couldn't really be that complicated.

Besides, the recruit that had made the bomb, Feza, was making suggestions to his two colleagues. It didn't give Cenk much to do besides look at his watch and tap his foot.

All the hallway doors were open, to facilitate the explosion and prevent the doorways from offering additional structural reinforcement, and the entire place felt eerily empty. Which was foolish; it had been empty the entire time, save Hakan's sets. The open doorways, dark in the pre-dawn light, just made the hallway a little more sinister.

The hissar knew what they were doing. It was watching them from all those open doors. And it didn't like it.

He didn't like it either. But it was what it was. If Erdogan or NATO were able to capture the colonel now, the revolution was over. There could be no evidence remaining that would lead to the colonel's new location.

Cenk fished in his pocket for the keys. He and Hakan had the only two, and he wasn't actually sure where the sergeant was at the moment. Probably handling logistics downstairs. He was a fairly detail oriented fellow. With the major gone, he was going to have to integrate a little more with the team.

They'd have to find a new weapons specialist. Hakan would no longer be the newbie.

The lock turned smoothly, and Cenk pushed open the door to the prayer room. No one was watching the American at the moment. The recruits had more important work, and they'd accidentally left him hanging from his wrists for most of the day yesterday. He didn't expect to find the agent in any condition to put up a fight.

He was right; the American agent was folded up in his corner, knees tucked to his chest to cradle his wrists. He was awake; it was still dark but of course he would have noticed the change to his routine.

This wouldn't really be a surprise.

Cenk fully entered the cell, and he sighed. "You should have cooperated, American. I liked you."

The young man's blue eyes looked grey in the pre-dawn light, and they watched him warily.

The second lieutenant drew his sidearm, just in case it wasn't clear to the exhausted agent what was about to happen. "Up. On your knees."

He gave the man a few moments to comply, but he didn't move.

"Come, American. It will save you some pain." Otherwise he was going to have to shoot through his knees to his chest. He'd have to leave his face and teeth intact to ensure his corpse was identifiable in the rubble.

The agent stared at him, without blinking, and Cenk found himself smiling. It was hard not to respect him, stubborn as he was. ". . . your choice."

He raised his weapon, and the American didn't react.

"Salaam, Angus MacGyver."

The American watched him a moment more, then the tension slowly drained from his posture. He let his head fall against the wall beside him, and wearily closed his eyes.

-M-

I really am sorry about this cliffie. There's a whole lot happening all at the same time, and I didn't want to split that between chapters. I can promise you that this particular cliffhanger will be completely resolved by the end of the next chapter.

I've gotten feedback that I may be being a little too ambiguous about certain things. So, to ensure we're all together – Jack and Team have decided they're going to go get Mac – right now, despite being beat all the hell and having no backup. Aaaaand if they happen to kill Aydin, none of them will lose any sleep.

Matty gave the State Department bad intel to see where that bad intel ends up – she also told them that her agents were going to make a move, but she didn't give them the right timetable. She then asked NATO to look the other way regarding her agents on the ground trying to recover Mac, and NATO basically told her they weren't going to do crap for her until she got her house in order.

The colonel is pretty pissed that he's having to retreat, and he blames Kenan, so he killed him. He also ordered Cenk to kill MacGyver, and he's doing that now.

Jury still seems to be out on sequel vs no sequel. Everyone has been very explicit that you want to be sure I wrap this up neatly, either way, and I promise I'll do my best.


	17. Chapter 17

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

He stared at the machine for a moment, trying to remember the combination of buttons. Kevin had made it look very easy. It was . . . the blue one up in the corner – and he tapped it – and then . . .

Right. The middle of the three grey ones.

The machine quieted, and Bozer eyed the bag of saline attached to it. It wasn't empty, and it was still dripping, so he wasn't sure if the alarm had been because the machine thought she'd had enough, or something had clogged up the line-

He glanced down at the patient, and found slitted green eyes glinting up at him from a pale face.

Bozer grinned. "Hey! Lookit you, all awake!"

He lost her eyes for a moment, but then the green reappeared, and her eyebrows twitched together in the beginnings of a frown.

"Cage just woke up." He paused a second. "Now what do I do?"

His ear was quiet for a moment. "Don't let her move. Reassure her that's she fine."

The blonde agent winced and promptly raised her right hand to her head.

"Oh, hey, whoa whoa whoa, Cage, just take it easy-"

"Boze, just give her your com."

Wilt put a light hand on her shoulder, trying to prevent her from moving any further without hurting her, and he fished the earwig out of his right ear, holding it up in front of her.

"Doc wants a word," he said, and he waited for something like recognition to cross her features before he nodded to her, and then leaned as much as his compression shirt would let him, slipping the earwig into place.

There really was way too much overlap between movies and real secret agents.

She blinked a few more times, apparently concentrating on listening, and the office door creaked open to reveal Riley, laptop and power supply in her good hand.

"Might as well," she said under her breath, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on on coms. "Set up that desk, wouldja?"

The funeral home turned human trafficking hotel turned superspy safehouse had an office that was just way too normal. Unlike the rest of the place, with its creepy, noise-reducing curtains and carpeting, the office kind of reminded him of that time he worked a few weeks at Blockbuster in high school. The desk was just a normal laminated particleboard desk with metal legs and drawers, and he shoved some old folders out of the way and put the laptop where Cage would be able to see it without moving.

Not that he thought watching an op was going to be all that relaxing for her, but if she was up, that meant one of them needed to stay with her, which meant either Riley would be on her own supporting the op, or he would be.

Once divested of her laptop, Riley reached into her pocket and came back with a thin beige rectangle. She handed it to Bozer, who set it down on the desk while he rooted – very carefully and without bending his upper body in any way - around behind it for a plug. The Greek standard for electricity was 210 volts, so the adapter on the laptop plug was just like in the US, except two round posts instead of two flat slats.

He got it plugged in, then cracked open the case and fished out another earwig. He found the minute little switch to turn it on, and put it back in his ear.

"-so just sit tight and keep the calisthenics to a minimum. If you have pain, don't let it get out of hand. It'll be way harder to beat back down than to just keep steady."

Samantha Cage swallowed. ". . . understood."

Bozer snapped his fingers. "And I will get you some water."

"Ice chips," Kevin corrected, after a beat.

He raised his eyebrows and gave Cage a look that said 'busted,' but he was unable to get a smile out of her. Riley was dragging an office chair to the desk, so she could continue manning the laptop, and he slipped out of the office, heading back down the hallway for the kitchen.

"Glad to hear your voice, Samantha. Now, can we please cut the chatter?"

Leave it to Matty to rain on their parade. Then again, with – now that Cage was up – twelve people on coms, the line could get really saturated really fast.

"Eagle in position?"

There was a quiet snort on the line. "You military boys are cute."

Eagle is what they'd decided to call Sarah, probably because she was up on the closest thing to a hill they could find near the property, just inside the perimeter of the colonel's defenses. Riley had lined up satellites that gave them visibility into infrared radiation – heat – and it had been a little hard to watch her encounter something orange, then leave it behind, and watch the bright colors start to fade a little.

"Overwatch confirmed. Delta team, go go go."

Delta team was pretty easy to remember – it was the team Jack was leading. Him, Saito, John, and Alejandro were tasked with getting inside the mansion and finding Mac.

"Charlie team, stand by."

Also easy to remember – it was the rest of the Charlie site agents. Alley, Benjy, and Kevin were working on distractions. Bozer wasn't quite sure what the distractions were, but there had been an awful lot of swearing on the part of Alley, and he didn't think he'd heard Benjy speak at all.

"Hey, you've got a couple dudes coming around the north side." Riley's voice was easy to pick out – she was one of the few people speaking English – and Bozer tapped his com to mute it as he dumped a few ice cubes into the ancient blender.

"Copy."

There wasn't much to hear – mostly breathing and running – and he returned to the office to find Riley glued to the satellite image. Boze held up the cup, and Cage gave him a very, very tentative nod. He selected a decent sized ice chip and she accepted it gratefully.

The next voice in his ear, he recognized as Jack's. "We're in."

-M-

Jack felt a firm tap on his shoulder, and he ducked around the corner, heading in a straight line through a small doorway. He put his back to the inside wall of the entrance, quickly clearing the servant stairwell.

No sound. No shadows. It was empty.

He returned to the doorway, glancing back down the main hallway, and held up his left fist. The two Turks were about twenty yards away, carrying a large crate. One was walking backwards, still facing them, and across the hall, Jack caught Zee's eyes.

The other agent gave him a nod, and when the two soldiers were occupied with maneuvering their burden around a stack of like crates, he crossed the hallway smoothly, passing in front of Jack and up the stairs.

Behind him, Tunne waited for a similar opportunity, and crossed without incident. Saito was the last agent, and once he'd also passed in front of Jack, he checked the hallway, one more time.

The Turks were oblivious.

The four agents crept up the back stairwell. Second floor showed less activity, and third floor even less than that. Their plan to was clear the building from the top down. Charlie team would put on a light show if they got too loud, and draw the first floor out into the courtyard for Sarah to handle.

On the second floor landing, Saito and John peeled off, flanking the hallway entrance, and Jack and Zee continued up to the third floor. Coms were quiet.

Zee peered out into the third floor hallway, his eyes white against the camouflage paint on his face, and he kept his head out there for several seconds before he pulled back into the landing. He held up four fingers.

Jack nodded, and they swapped positions. He came back with the same count. A single soldier was standing halfway down the hall, supervising several others. Two were unpacking dictionary-sized blocks from a canvas duffel. The third stood off to one side, snipping wire and sorting through blasting caps.

Jack eased back into the landing. "Looks like they're planting explosives up on three," he murmured in an undertone.

Coms were quiet for a moment.

"Same on two," John's voice was no louder than Jack's had been.

Rather than chance the property being taken before they could completely strip it, they were going to blow it to destroy evidence.

Zee held up two fingers, then motioned to the opposite side of the hall. Jack gave him a nod, and he covered the stairwell while the agent waited for an opening. He got it much faster than Jack would have expected, darting silently into the dim hallway, and Jack took his place, eyes down the hall.

Another soldier had joined the one in the middle of the hallway. Huge guy, most of the light was coming from behind him, his face was shadowed but –

That was Colonel Aydin.

Zee had already slipped into an empty room, two down the hall, and then the pair of soldiers came out of one of the rooms with a chair, and one held it steady while the other stepped up, and placed the charge in the joint of the wall and the ceiling.

"I've got Aydin on three," Jack breathed.

The last soldier also came out of the same room, and passed a blasting cap up to the man on the chair, bringing the total number of men on the floor to five.

Nearly all the doors on this floor were open. He and Zee were going to have to zig-zag their way across to get close enough for hand to hand. They were seriously outgunned; they all needed to keep this as quiet as possible.

One of the main reasons he'd put Zee on Delta team.

"Can you take him?" Matty's voice seemed very loud in the stairwell landing.

Jack eyeballed the distance. "Not without making a lotta noise."

". . . keep eyes on him if you can. Mac's the primary objective."

"Copy."

The two soldiers – Frick and Frack, Jack decided - and their crappy chair ladder moved down the hall, towards his and Zee's position, and then Aydin and the other soldier looked down the hallway, right at them.

Jack froze where he was, just barely visible around the doorframe, and half lidded his eyes. Dark face in a dark hallway, standing absolutely still, wouldn't be noticed. Movement, however, would give him away as clearly as if he'd opened fire.

After a moment, the colonel said something, and the other soldier nodded. The colonel turned back towards his man, apparently issuing an instruction, and Jack eased out into the hallway, staying to the same side, and slipped into the first room he came across.

It was empty of people. Large, rough cabinets lined the walls, and there were a couple corner desks that had been shoved together into a kind of console. Plain white binders lined non-matching bookshelves. The form factor of it reminded Jack of . . . a launch control room.

There were a couple gouges in the desktops, and the wall above the main console area showed more than a few bulletholes.

"I got some kinda training room." He kept his voice soft. "Maybe for a base or airfield."

There was unfortunately no door connecting this room to the next, and Jack peered out into the hall again.

The colonel was gone, and the supervising soldier was walking unhurriedly in their direction.

"Aydin's heading to two. Middle stairwell."

Zee had already zigged to his next door, putting them both on the same side of the hallway. When the supervising soldier stopped, ostensibly to supervise Frick, Frack, and Blasting Cap, Jack took his cue and crossed to his next position.

They were still too far from the group when the ranking soldier continued towards them, rooting around in his pocket. He approached one of the few closed doors in the hallway. It was an older door, decorative, and inset into the wall with a thick stone frame. The soldier pulled a key from his pocket, opening it, and the room within was dark. The moment he stepped fully inside, Zee took his next position. Frick glanced towards them, as if he'd caught a glimpse of Zee, and Jack managed to stop himself at the last instant.

He was still ten yards from the nearest target when he heard the supervising Turk speak. The words were indistinct, and his tone was mild. Jack glanced back up the hall. Supervisor was mostly out of view; all he could see was the guy's right arm. And his right hand, drawing his sidearm.

That room wasn't empty.

Zee was on the same side of the hallway as Supervisor, he was one room closer but he had no visibility, nor did he have a shot. Frack had just stepped off the chair and Blasting Cap was leading the way towards them, eyes on the ceiling.

Supervisor said something else. His voice was too quiet to make out.

Zee shifted to the front side of his doorframe, catching Jack's eye. "What?"

"That guy just pulled a gun," Jack breathed, indicating the stone-framed door. "Can you hear him?"

He said something else, and then the gun disappeared from view.

"He said 'your choice.' In English."

Frick, Frack, and Blasting Cap were taking their dear sweet time. There was no way they'd pass either his or Zee's position in time.

The whites of Zee's eyes became visible in the shadows. "It's Mac!"

Jack stepped out into the hallway like he owned it, resting his left hand comfortably on his dangling rifle and suppressing any indication of a limp. He nodded briskly to Frick and Frack, taking long, rapid strides, and when he finally had the angle he needed he drew his sidearm and put two into Supervisor's back.

Zee had stepped out when he was even with him, and there was the hiss of something cutting air. Blasting Cap went down with a knife in his throat.

Frick and Frack recovered fast. Supervisor hadn't hit the ground before Frack was returning fire, and Jack fell back to his previous position, swapping to his MK16.

While his and Zee's weapons were suppressed, Frick and Frack's were not. "We're made," Jack said unnecessarily, and put a quick burst of fire down the hallway.

"Charlie team, you're a go."

There was no longer any need to whisper, and Saito didn't. "Hang tight, we're comin' up-"

"Negative!" He saw that Zee had regained his previous position as well, and Frick and Frack had retreated down the hall into rooms of their own. "Let your guys come up here." It would thin out resistance on the second floor.

"Got the colonel on two," John called. "Jack, you're about to get flanked."

Zee turned to cover the back stairwell, and Jack continued to put down suppressive fire, going easy on the ammo.

If this went the way he hoped it would, he was only gonna need two bullets.

Five or six Turks grouped by the middle stairwell, about ten yards behind Frick and Frack, and Jack saw a few shadows moving at the very end of the hallway. It wouldn't take long before they formed up for a rush.

Nice thing about those explosive blocks they'd been laying, though – light grey, almost white. He could see them even in the dim.

"Zee-"

"Gotcha covered."

Jack braced himself on the doorframe, knowing it was gonna hurt, and hooked his right leg against the wall. Then he leaned out, sighting the explosive block that was sitting right on top of the Turks in the stairwell.

He opened his mouth, taking a deep breath and letting half out, and then he blew the explosive pack.

The concussion from that one wasn't too bad, he'd made Frick and Frack dive for cover, and he aimed further down the hall, gritting his teeth as the angle pulled on his gut. He fired a burst, hoping to get lucky, and that pack went as well.

"Down!"

He didn't wait to see if Zee fell back – the agent was too seasoned not to – and he aimed much closer, just over Frack, and blew the third pack. It was only ten or so yards away, and he felt it; hot air and a little masonry right in his face. Jack leaned back inside his room, giving the high-pitched whine in his ears a second to settle before crouching low, watching the dust-filled hallway.

Zee let off a short burst, and he heard a body hit the floor, only a few yards behind him.

Jack glanced, he had a slightly better angle on the back stairwell entrance, but he didn't see anyone else.

Zee popped out of his cover, rifle up, and Jack nodded, proceeding swiftly out of his room. There was movement, by the stairs, and he strafed through the bodies there. Without missing a beat, he zigged across the hallway, into the room with the decorative stone frame, and stepped over Supervisor, scanning the room.

It was empty.

There was a drab ceramic pot in one corner – probably the latrine - and otherwise the room was completely barren of anything. No furniture, no lights, not so much as a blanket. A pair of military grade ziptie restraints lay on the tile a few feet in front of the dead Turk.

Jack stepped back into the hallway, and Zee came up behind him, still covering the back stairwell.

"Did you see him?"

Zee shook his head. "Guy called him by name. He was there."

. . . then how the hell did he get out of that room without getting killed?

-M-

He slipped on the bloodied stone and almost went down, and bullets sprayed the bodies just behind him. Mac gave up trying to keep his feet under him, going for a foot-first slide, and he made it to the landing more or less in one piece.

Jack was already down the second half of the stairs, checking around the corner. "Mac, hurry up-"

Seventeen stairs. The grand staircase was twenty steps to his right.

An explosion had him ducking again, despite himself. It wasn't as close as the ones in the upstairs hallway; this one had come from outside. With a loud clunk, the lights went dark.

Power was out.

Mac took the opportunity to bolt down the second set of stairs and across the hallway, taking cover beside a large chest of drawers. He'd never seen this hallway with his eyes, but he knew where all the rugs would be, and how many steps it would take to get him where he needed to go.

The front door was directly across from the grand staircase. There was no reason to think the jeep that had been there earlier would still be there, but there was no reason to think there wouldn't be some type of vehicle.

There was some indistinct shouting, and Mac pressed himself to the wall as someone scurried quietly past. They were headed upstairs, and didn't see him.

The medic's gun felt cold and heavy in his hand, and Mac waited until the person had cleared the landing and started up the second set of stairs before he moved.

Outside, there was a second explosion, large enough that light flashed through the front of the house. Upstairs, he heard gunfire – whoever had been climbing the stairs had been spotted – and Jack motioned him forward. Mac obeyed, dodging across the hall to an ornate glass cabinet. He was already out of breath, and his legs were shaking with fatigue.

More shouting, coming from the atrium. Jack eased around the corner, checking it out, and his frown was obvious.

Wordlessly, his partner shook his head. No clear exit.

Mac took as many deep breaths as he could, stifling every cough. Okay. This was basically a hissar that had been added onto. A hissar was first and foremost a fort and a palace combined, there would be multiple stairwells so servants could pass between the floors without being seen.

There should be stairwells on each end of each wing. The grand staircase would have been for royalty only, but there should be another, hidden stairwell somewhere central. There should also be a dumbwaiter around somewhere, which might be the better choice. He was in no shape to run through a firefight.

"Dude, did you seriously just say hissar?" Jack was glancing down the hallway. "Because Cage was right, that totally was mansplainin' you were doin' that day-"

Mac shook his head in disbelief. "Can we _not_ do this right now?"

"Why? 'Cause the bad guys are shooting at us?" Jack was using his faux offended tone. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe I'll find a nice _wall_ to lean on, or _chair_ to sit in, that'll totally set off all the alarms –"

Mac took another deep breath. If the next two words out of Jack's mouth were 'blue ponies,' he was pretty sure he was going to –

A pool.

He was on the second floor. If the grounds had a pool, he didn't need to go down any stairs.

Mac eyed the distance to the nearest door across the hall. About twelve yards, but very little cover. He peered out around the cabinet, watching the shadows, but dust from the ceiling, triggered by the explosions one floor up, made them seem to twine sinuously around every piece of furniture. Mac squeezed his eyes shut, holding it until he saw stars, and he opened them wide.

That was as good as his sight was going to get.

"Go, Mac!"

He pushed off from the wall, sprinting for the door, and there was a gunshot. He didn't feel any pain, barreling into the door and grasping frantically for the knob. He turned it just enough, and the door fell inward faster than he'd anticipated. The wooden doorframe popped, right in front of his face, and Mac flinched from the splinters, landing on his right shoulder on a well-woven rug.

He rolled forward, getting the rest of his body out of the way, and landed on his back, hooking the door with his left foot. A shadow appeared in the open doorway, and he started to raise the gun. He was never going to get the door closed in time –

The shadow took a bullet to the head, falling sideways, and Mac heard his name just before the door slammed shut.

The room was very dark, filled with stacks and stacks of boxes, and Mac rolled to his feet, breathing hard. The windows were covered, and he hurried through the maze towards a slim rectangle of light, shoving equipment out of the way. He was weak, and it was heavy; the going was slow.

Mac put his back to the last crate, placing his bare feet on the stack across from him and shoving with everything he had. His back twinged, but the crate shifted, enough for him to see –

There was no pool.

There was, however, a concrete pad, upon which a helicopter sat. The rotors were just starting to spin up.

Pre-flight.

The door to the room burst open.

Mac ducked, using the maze of boxes to keep himself out of sight, and he followed the wall until his eyes picked out a dark rectangle, too square to be a stack of boxes.

A connecting door to the adjoining room.

He hurried towards it, his thighs burning from the crouch, and this door opened soundlessly to a much brighter room. He eased through, keeping the opening as narrow as possible, and pressed it closed gently behind him.

He found himself with a great view of the helo, there were garden windows, floor to ceiling like the corner room had had. Dawn was threatening to break, and he could start to pick out colors. The furniture was lightly upholstered, grouped in small, intimate settings around what was some kind of drawing room.

It wasn't empty.

He brought up the gun before he thought, and the enormous shadow across from him had done the same.

The shadow stepped forward, into a shaft of light, and Mac recognized him with a start.

It was the man responsible for all of this.

Colonel Batuhan Aydin.

Behind him, Jack gave a low, humorless growl.

-M-

"Does anyone have eyes on Mac?"

Jack moved down the stairs quickly, Zee at his back, and they paused on the landing between the third and second floors.

"Maybe." It sounded like Saito. "Got movement, middle hallway, second floor-"

There was a gunshot, and a shadow sprinted past the stairwell without even glancing at them. Almost immediately after Jack heard a muffled thud. He took the stairs as fast as he could, favoring his left leg. "Entering two-"

"Hold!"

Jack pulled himself up short, and almost teetered off the last step. Zee grabbed him by the back of the vest, catching him just in time. There was another shot fired, and he heard a body hit the floor.

"Mac!" It was definitely Saito.

A door slammed.

"Clear?" Jack waited impatiently for the response.

"Clear."

He and Zee entered the hallway on the second floor. It was dark enough that he could use his NVD and Jack pulled it around from the back of his head to the front, letting his eyes adjust to the greens. He spotted a like equipped individual holding down the far stairwell, and Saito gave him a two fingered salute.

"Where's Mac?"

Saito gestured to the rooms on Jack's right. "Colonel never made it down to one. He's here," he added.

That suited Jack just fine.

"Uh, guys?"

Jack brought himself up short, taking cover behind a tall dresser.

Riley didn't wait to be recognized. "You've got incoming. A lot of it. Three helicopters, at least six vehicles. Four on the north road, two on the south. They're about two miles out."

Alley swore. "More of Aydin's boys?"

"Uh . . ."

"Military formation." Cage's voice was a little stronger than before. "Can't tell."

"ETA?"

"Minutes."

Jack jogged down the hallway, not surprised to see that Saito was meeting him halfway. The Japanese agent held up a hand, then gestured at a set of double doors, and held up five fingers.

Jack nodded, ever so gently ejecting his mag and swapping it quietly for a fresh. Zee tapped him on the shoulder, letting him know he had his back, and Jack did another quick check of the hall.

He nodded, and Saito breached the door he'd indicated Mac was behind.

Jack gave him a slow five count, and then he burst through the double doors of the room beside it.

The NVD flared bright green, and Jack swiped it off his face with a curse, letting it fall on the rich carpet. There was enough natural light that he could see there were two targets, on opposite sides of the room, guns trained on the other.

"Eyes on two," he barked, not bothering to be quiet – no point now – and the one on his right turned in his direction.

He was huge, way too big to be either Mac or John, and Jack dropped to a crouch, firing off a quick burst. Stuffing from a upholstered, high-backed chair flew festively into the air, and the other target, on his left, dove for cover.

Jack pushed forward, and his left knee wobbled dangerously before he made it behind a sturdy looking love seat. The target on his right let off three shots – clearly either not hit, or wearing a vest – and Jack ducked under a spray of wood and fabric.

"Got eyes on the colonel," he reported humorlessly, casting around for better cover. None of this furniture was bulletproof, a gunfight in here was not going to end well –

"Drop it."

The voice was unequivocally, absolutely familiar, in a way that made Jack's breath catch. He dared to peer around the love seat, and the other figure in the room, the target on his left, had stepped out of the corner shadows.

The silhouette wasn't quite right. Mac was lean, but this shadow was downright skinny. His hair lay flat against his skull. He was advancing on the colonel, gun trained on him, and his finger was inside the trigger cage.

The colonel had canted his head towards Mac, his own weapon still pointed towards Jack, and Dalton smirked, slowly rising from his own cover with his MK16 in plain sight.

"Well, hello again, colonel," he drawled. "Long time no see."

Behind Mac, the door to the adjoining room opened silently, and Saito crept in, stepping off to the side to get a bead on the colonel.

"I said drop it," Mac growled, and Jack circled around the love seat, quickly closing the gap.

"Ooh, he sounds mad. You should probably do what he says."

Aydin's eyes flicked towards Jack, ignoring Mac for the moment. "Ah. I should have expected it would be you."

Jack winked. "I'm like a bad penny that way. Do you have pennies here in Turkey?"

Mac took another step towards Aydin, as if he was totally unaware that he was now completely superfluous. "Final warning."

Jack was close enough now to make out detail. Mac was shirtless and barefoot, and what was left of his stained, ragged pants was nearly falling off his skinny little hips. He was visibly shaking, though the gun was reasonably steady. There were thick, dark stripes around his wrists, and the shadows made him look-

"Easy, Mac," he heard himself say.

He'd never seen Mac wear that face before. Never. Not even when he'd played at being Murdoc. It wasn't just that the beginnings of a beard were makin' him look ten years older. It was his eyes.

He looked like he was actually going to pull the trigger.

Aydin released the pistol, letting it swing freely on his index finger to dangle upside-down in his hand. Mac gave his own pistol a little jerk, gesturing for the colonel to put it down, and Aydin haltingly complied.

Jack closed the rest of the distance between them. "All right, asshat. Hands behind your head."

"Good thing you've got a bargaining chip," Sarah chirped in his ear. "Unless I'm misreading the blue compass and the French flag on these guys, NATO's just arrived to crash the party."

NATO was better than more of Aydin's goons, but not by much.

"Charlie, Eagle, fall back." Matty's voice was hard. "We're operating illegally in an allied country. You _cannot_ be captured."

" . . . you . . ."

Jack registered the voice as Mac's, and he looked at his partner in time to see the gun shift from Aydin to him.

"Whoa," he said, good-naturedly. "Easy there. It's me."

There was not a hint of recognition in those blue eyes.

"Put it down. Now."

Mac's finger was still on the trigger. Jack could count on one thumb the number of times he'd seen Mac actually fire a weapon the way it was meant to be used.

What had looked like shadows Jack could see now were bruises. The stripes on his wrists weren't the remnants of restraints – they were the result. A trickle of blood was drawing a line down his forearm. He looked like he could barely hold up the weight of the gun.

Jack eased his rifle down, letting it dangle from its strap and taking his hands off. Saito was covering Aydin, and Zee had their back. For this, they could make time. "Hey, I know it's a shock, man. I'm not dead. Surprise?"

MacGyver narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "I know."

Jack blinked at him. "Uh, okay . . . so . . . we're good then?"

The kid refocused on him, gesturing sharply with the pistol. "Put it down, and get on your knees. Hands behind your head."

He felt his eyebrows crawling upwards. "Mac . . . do you recognize me, brother?"

The gun shook. "Do _not . . ._ call me that."

Behind Mac, Saito shifted, and Jack scowled without looking directly at him. It didn't seem like Mac had any clue he was there.

The kid was definitely not with it.

This was going to complicate things. "Okay, okay." Jack made his tone conciliatory, and he reached up – very slowly – and unclipped the MK16. Mac watched him like a hawk.

"Guys, what's happening over there?" It was Kevin's voice in his ear, and he sounded harried.

It was Zee's quiet voice that replied. "MacGyver's pulled a gun on Dalton."

"NATO's going to breach that house in less than thirty seconds." It was Matty. "Jack, talk him down and get out of there!"

"I know," Mac muttered out loud, plainly frustrated. It wasn't clear who he was talking to.

For all his size, Aydin moved like a snake. The second the MK16 was clear of the strap, the colonel made a grab for it, shoulder-checking Mac into Saito's line of sight in the same movement. Jack stumbled back, and he heard a gunshot, close range. The colonel got a hand on the rifle but fell back, pulling it out of Jack's hands, and Mac recovered from the hit, suddenly seeming to realize Saito was behind him.

He turned, gun still in his hand, and Saito disarmed him reflexively, striking Mac's bloodied wrists. He shouted with pain, flinching back, and Jack reached out and grabbed him from behind.

"Easy –"

His partner threw his head back, it was sheer luck Jack had had his face turned towards the entrance to see Zee coming in to cover Aydin, otherwise he'd have a broken nose. The strike hit him just under his right eye, and Jack hung on grimly as Mac thrashed in his grip, clawing at his arms.

"Mac, calm down!"

Saito bypassed them, probably to secure the colonel, and Jack dodged an elbow strike to his abdomen by pure reflex.

In his arms, Mac let out a wordless cry of frustration.

Jack shifted his hold, tucking his quickly weakening friend close, where his sharp elbows couldn't hit anything tender. He wrapped his right arm higher, around Mac's neck, and he pinned the kid's flailing head against the side of his face.

It put his mouth just behind Mac's left ear. "Easy, brother. I got you. You're okay. I got you."

He kept his left arm around Mac's upper chest, trying to control his arms, and he put Mac's Adam's apple in the crook of his right elbow and tightened his arm, hating himself for it.

It was a modified sleeper hold, three weeks ago it would never have been enough to hold Mac, but he was panicking, and he was too weak to break free. He struggled with everything he had, and Jack kept repeating himself, over and over, until Mac started to grow heavier and heavier in his arms.

Even after his partner finally relaxed, Jack hung onto him for another few seconds, just to make sure. He'd have a hell of a headache later, but at least he'd be alive.

Saito reappeared in front of them, and Jack released Mac, letting the other agent grab Mac's right arm. Saito bent, wrapping his other arm between Mac's sagging legs, and then he had Mac in a modified fireman's carry, and Jack recovered his rifle, noting that Aydin was fully restrained, and apparently taking a nap.

But still alive. That was a shame. He was bleeding, though, it looked like Zee had tagged him in the left shoulder, so that was something.

"NATO forces have breached the main door." Riley's voice was tight. "They're in the house."

Side stairwell it was.

Jack turned, finding Zee was already back at the hallway door, and the Hispanic agent quietly pulled it closed with a shake of his head.

Shit.

Jack spun, trying to ignore the way Mac's head was lolling limply on Saito's shoulder. There were two doors in the back of the room. The first was the one Saito had come through, and the other –

The other was where Aydin had been standing.

There was no way a seasoned colonel would have trapped himself in a dead end. Jack stepped over the unconscious colonel, accidentally kicking him in the face, and tried the last door. It opened into darkness.

He flicked on the rifle's tac light, clearing the space, and he found a narrow flight of stairs. It was quiet.

"Clear."

The flight of stairs continued down below the first floor, but there was no guaranteed exit from a basement, and Jack eased open the door to the first floor, peering out into a room very much like the one that had been directly above it. Several pairs of large French doors opened to the back courtyard, where half a dozen men in uniforms were dragging the pilot out of the colonel's helo.

"Matty, we got any pull with these guys?" Surely one of them had a favor they could call in with NATO, for cryin' out loud -

". . . she stepped out," an unfamiliar female voice said tentatively. "She's making a call."

So that was a no.

The NATO forces removed the pilot, turning their weapons on the room behind them, and Jack pulled the stairwell door almost completely shut, until their flashlight beams were gone. He risked another peek, finding one guy in the cockpit, winding down the bird, and another at his door, covering him.

They were both wearing vests.

Jack hesitated. "Matty, we need an order."

"She's still not back-"

"Then go get her!" He closed his mouth, regretting the snap but not enough to apologize. The more NATO guys in the house, the less time they had. "John, what's your position?"

When Tunne did come back, he voice was very soft. "First floor west stairwell."

So they had to get to that bird, get rid of two friendlies, and pick up John.

There was a brief scuffle, in his ear, and Jack held, still watching the helo.

Zee broke the silence. "John, come in."

They all heard a grunt of effort, as if someone had just picked up something very heavy, and then a lot of motion. ". . . hold your position. I got an idea."

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Saito still had Mac, standing a couple stairs above him. Zee was a few stairs above Saito, covering the stairwell above them. The close quarters were starting to smell a little ripe.

Clearly Mac hadn't had many opportunities to get a shower. Or a meal. It was too dark to see the damage, and Jack wondered idly if he had enough time to discuss it with Aydin.

They all concentrated on their com, and Jack heard some motion, and then someone break out into rhythmic breathing as they jogged. Motion at the helo caught his eye, and he saw a third NATO man join the first two. He made a gesture towards the west side of the house.

"Gunny needs you at the west stairwell," they all heard clearly in their ear, and the guy covering the pilot gave a nod and took off towards the west.

Jack grinned.

"Get ready," he murmured, and he waited while John gave it a few seconds, then reached up and yanked the NATO pilot out of the bird.

"Move."

He pushed open the stairwell door, covering the rest of the room as Saito hurried behind him. He heard a lock slip back, then the sound of the helo's rotors got a lot louder. Zee passed him, and Jack backed up rapidly, still covering the doors to the main hallway.

"I got it, Jack."

He turned and climbed into the empty cockpit, noting that John was just setting down their now-slumbering NATO colleague, and he quickly opened the throttle back up. It was a Huey, little old fashioned, but a good solid bird, and he heard the back door slide back as Zee hopped on.

A gunshot pinged off the frame, small arms fire, and Jack made a face and pulled up on the collective, hunting around with his left foot for the pedal. It was stiff, and his knee wobbled again. Jack grit his teeth and angled his hip to get the strength he needed, and then they were up.

Jack grabbed the pilot's discarded headset and jammed it on his head, welcoming the silence. It wasn't silent long; someone was jabbering in French. He picked out 'unauthorized takeoff' before he turned the volume down.

"We got any other birds in play?"

He glanced at radar while they gained altitude, taking them out to the northwest. Worst case, he could dick around above the Sea of Marmara while Phoenix got them a proper jet.

"You do." It was Riley. "Two helicopters, both coming up from the south."

Probably gunner ships, if they'd been sent to back up the ground troops. At least it meant their guns were meant for ground targets. Jack laid on the pitch, gaining forward speed; the last thing they needed to get into was a dogfight. He shifted the headset mic in front of his mouth, hoping at least one of the other agents had been smart enough to put one on. "Buckle up back there."

He flipped off their transponder and running lights, just to make them slightly harder to pick out of the lightening sky, and made a beeline for the water.

Jack saw it on radar before he ever heard Riley's voice. "Jack, the two choppers are . . . they're heading back. They're breaking off!"

"Tell me you didn't shoot any friendlies." Matty's voice was loud and annoyed. "You already cost me a _very_ expensive bottle of scotch."

For the first time in what felt like months, something in his chest started to relax, and Jack glanced back into the cabin. Zee, John, and Saito were all there, wearing matching relieved grins, and strapped into the bench beside Saito, Mac's head was bouncing gently against the harness.

"Charlie, are you clear?"

Only the briefest of pauses. "Charlie's clear. Eagle's with us."

"Fookin' A," Alley added. "Did we get him then?"

"Oh yeah." Jack turned back to the controls, watching the sun just peeking up over the horizon. "Oh yeah."

-M-

Her stomach lurched a little, and Riley's eyes flew open.

The plane shook for another few seconds, then leveled out, the turbulence no worse than a Camry going over potholes in Pittsburg. Still, she winced, staring up at the pristine white fuselage for a moment. The Phoenix jet had its perks. One of which was that every seat was a first class seat, and you could actually stretch out and sleep on the damn thing.

Of course, it was a fourteen hour flight, and - Riley picked up her left arm, holding her watch up above her face – they were only twelve hours in.

Twelve hours was pretty good, actually. No wonder she had to pee.

She couldn't turn her neck at all – it was way stiffer than it had been even before she'd fallen asleep – and Riley used the motorized recline feature to pick herself back up into a sitting position. The cabin was full, which was something that didn't happen often. Most of the other passengers were also in various stages of passed out. She was not at all surprised to see it was Jack who had taken the seat beside hers, and she shifted onto her right hip, being super careful with her elbow, and looked at him.

On the nights he'd come home late, from 'tile conferences' and 'masterclasses', and he didn't want to wake Diane, he'd crap out in Elwood's recliner in the living room. She was an early riser as a little kid, and she'd sit on the back of the couch and watch him sleep. You could always tell when he was dreaming, kinda like a St. Bernard. Little twitches, sometimes his nostrils would flare. If she stared too long, he'd wake up with a start, and depending on his mood, they'd have Super Secret Frosted Flakes in the living room and watch cartoons until Diane finally woke up and caught them.

Right now he was not dreaming. He was _out_. Someone had put a blanket over him at some point, right up to his chin, and the cuts from the splinters of wood at the villa stood out starkly under two days' worth of stubble. Still, he looked relatively peaceful, and she smiled gently at the old man and got to her feet quietly, leaving her own little fleece blanket on the seat.

Alejandro – and they all called him Zee, she still hadn't gotten the scoop on that – was on the other side of Jack, snug in his neck pillow and wearing a black satin sleep mask. It almost made her laugh. It just looked so . . . prissy. Across the aisle, John, Saito, and Kevin were similarly sacked out. There was a beer, still half full, in Saito's cupholder, but no condensation.

Alley was on the couch along the fuselage wall, absorbed in an iPad, and gave her a silent nod. Beside her, Benjy was bundled up like a Native American shaman, sitting indian style with his eyes closed.

Riley passed them quietly, moving towards the back of the plane, and into the second cabin. This one was usually reserved for tech, but instead there were two narrow gurneys in the berths. Cage was to her right, and Mac was on the left. Perched on the counter beside Mac's bed was Bozer.

He was awake, phone in hand, absorbed in a game, and she gave him a smile and a wave as she passed. Their bathroom was the other super cool perk of the jet – it was actually a bathroom. Shower and all. And there was enough room that she could actually sit on the toilet without banging her right elbow into anything, which she was really starting to appreciate.

Kevin had given her something right before she'd called it a night, and whatever it was, apparently twelve hours was about all it would last.

Riley came back out, leaning on the left wall as they hit a few more bumps, and Cage opened her eyes.

"Hey," Riley greeted her.

The agent blinked that slow blink of hers. ". . . hey."

That was pretty much all Riley could think of to say to her. ". . . got about two hours til we land."

Samantha blinked an acknowledgement. Bozer had already spilled the beans that she could move her arms, but Kevin had been very explicit that she wasn't to move her head or neck in any way. He'd followed this up with an air cast, which made her kind of look like she was wearing a really cheap life jacket. It was clear the agent didn't care for it.

"Has . . . everything been sent to Phoenix?"

Riley paged through that in her mind. "Everything we had left on Aydin. Liz was going to clean it before we passed it on to State. Oh." There was one thing Cage had slept through. "CIA finally identified the mole at the State Department. He called one of Aydin's guys to give them a head's up on when NATO was going to move. Some analyst under Director Bosch."

Which meant Matty could finally give them what they'd gathered, and the State Department would then pass that along to the Turkish government and NATO. After doing all that research, Riley had to admit she wasn't particularly crazy about Erdogan. He seemed a little better than Aydin, but not much. "NATO took the colonel and a few of his guys into custody, and we gave them the recruitment centers, so . . ."

So they'd probably rounded up a few more. No word yet on his team of Maroon Berets, or at least not before Kevin had knocked her out.

Cage blinked again, then seemed to focus on her feet. Riley put her back to the wall, following her gaze to where Bozer was frowning at his phone.

Riley was pretty sure Cage wasn't looking at Bozer.

They'd bundled Mac up too. He was in a blue hospital gown, but barely any of it was visible under the blankets that were up to his armpits to allow for the same restraints that were keeping Cage snug in her gurney. His wrists were both heavily bandaged, and his face was half hidden under an oxygen mask. A line was running under it, through his nose, and Riley followed it up the IV pole to a small bag of white liquid.

Breakfast.

Even with so little of him visible, what was exposed was bruised, battered, or sharp. Riley hadn't realized anyone's fingers could be so thin. He'd always had that boy band jawline, but now it was especially defined, even with the swelling. Someone had taken a shot at cleaning him up a little, but his hair was still limp and filthy, and all the gear around him just made him look somehow fragile.

Riley blinked, and shoved off the wall, really looking at him. Either it was a trick of the light, or –

"Hey, Mac?"

Bozer dropped the phone into his lap, exchanging it for one of Mac's hands, which he sandwiched between his. "Hey, man. You awake?"

His eyes were barely open, and they closed for so long she thought he'd fallen back asleep. But he got them open again, only slightly wider, and they crawled sluggishly towards Boze.

Bozer grinned down at him. "You're on a Phoenix jet, Mac. We're headed home."

Mac watched Bozer for a second, and then slowly took the rest of them in. Riley gave him a big smile when he got to her, and his eyebrows seemed to bunch, for just a second.

Probably the bandages. She gestured at her neck. "It's no biggie. Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

"And you will be too," Bozer assured him, squeezing his hand. "Doc's giving you something for the pain, that's why you're all dopey. And the oxygen mask is 'cause we're on a plane, and apparently the air pressure is less in here, so Kevin thought it'll make you feel better. You feel okay, man? It hurt anywhere?"

Trust Boze to focus on telling Mac where he was, and how he was. Giving him facts instead of empty reassurances.

Of course, facts _were_ reassuring to someone like Mac.

He didn't even try to sit up, or say anything. He just lay there, absolutely still, and after he was done looking around, his eyes settled back on Bozer. When he blinked again, it was pretty lethargic.

"I think our boy's getting ready for another nap," Riley teased. "I'll go get Kevin."

By the time she'd gotten back to the first cabin and managed to wake Agent Todd – gently – Mac's eyes were closed again. Bozer still had his hand, but there wasn't any tension in his grasp. Kevin squeezed one of his big toes, through the sheets, but Mac's eyes didn't open again.

Kevin studied the monitors for a moment. "Everything looks good. I'm a little surprised he woke up. That's a good sign," he added, and then looked to Bozer. "He say anything?"

Boze shook his head. "He was pretty out of it."

"Yeah, I bet." The agent patted Mac's leg, still with no response. "We're about two hours out. Let me know if he wakes up again. Oh, and Bozer?" Kevin reached out and tapped the younger man's side, smiling a little when he flinched. "If you'd stop sitting like that, your ribs wouldn't hurt as much."

-M-

So it seems like none of you were terribly thrilled with last chapter. Hopefully this redeemed it. **Long Live BRUCAS** has been waiting for this moment since I think about Chapter 7, and we finally got there! Everyone on a plane, heading back to the Phoenix. Aydin in custody, a lot of the Turkish militia dead, and our heroes can finally get some rest and recover.

I'm sure that's all going to go just peachy . . .

There's still quite a bit of story ahead of us, so those of you who were worried that this was going to be THE END, it's not. I still have no idea how I thought I could get this all told in one month. I decided to leave open a sequel opportunity, just in case, but I promise that this story, if it ever ends, will be completely self-contained.


	18. Chapter 18

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Jack held his temper by a thread, plastering on a grin he didn't feel.

"Okay. Look, doc." He clapped what could possibly have been construed as a friendly hand on the man's shoulder. "You're new here, or maybe I ain't been down here in a while, either way, welcome to the team, yaddah yaddah." He made a circular gesture with his hand. "I'm not a picky guy, I'll do pretty much anything for anybody. But." And he pointed. "I ain't sitting in that thing."

The doctor looked between him and the vampire chair of bloodsucking death, like he couldn't quite figure out the problem. "I assure you, Mr. Dalton –"

"Hey, whoa, uncalled for." Jack yanked his hand off the doc's shoulder. "My father is Mr. Dalton, thank you. How old you think I am? You even read that chart?"

"Okay, he's dropping words now." It was Riley's voice, from one bed over. "Seriously, dude, just let him sit where he wants."

Jack turned very deliberately and cast the Jack Dalton Stink-Eye over his shoulder. "Dropping words? Now what exactly is that supposed to me?"

She held up her left hand placatingly. "I'm just saying, sometimes the Texas comes out a little more than other times, and when your grammar gets even worse than usual, it's a pretty good indication that whatever _tiny_ section of your brain you do normally use, is no longer functional."

Jack pulled himself upright, despite the pain, not quite sure if he was legitimately offended or not. "Pardon me?"

On his left, a short, brown-haired nurse started wrapping a band of latex around his arm. He glared at her. "Et tu?"

She gave him a bright smile, and reached up to pat his cheek. "I don't care where you sit, Jack. We can do this right here."

Right here was the edge of a treatment bed in Medical, in a room with eight of his closest friends and possibly every medical professional the Phoenix Foundation employed. He was less interested in having his blood drawn, and more interested in being in one of the four private rooms, where presumably his partner was sleeping off almost three weeks of Turkish hospitality.

"Why are we even doing this?" he groused. "Nothing even happened."

"Oh, yeah. Me too." Riley's eyebrows were doing that thing where she didn't actually mean what she was saying. "Nothing terrible happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, either, so I'm totally good."

Jack grit his teeth. "I do not sound like that."

The bunched eyebrows shot up. "Really? Because you pretty much just said that exact thing."

The nurse inserted a needle into the crook of his elbow, releasing the latex band, and he glared at her a moment before looking back over his shoulder. "Is there some reason you're pickin' on me? Did I snore or somethin' on the way back?"

Riley's sarcastic expression melted into a fond grin. "Nah, Jack, I just know you don't like needles. And, when you're pissed off, you don't really pay much attention to anything else."

He blinked at her, a little taken aback, and her grin turned mischievous. "Also, Saito is right. You're being a crabby whiny baby right now."

". . . okay, whoa," came a cautious voice from the wall. Saito was one of the few agents who was _not_ on a bed, and he didn't look like he wanted to be anytime soon. "I believe what I said was, irritable little bitch."

Jack took a deep, slow breath through his nose, carefully not getting up and throttling the man, and Saito smirked.

"Well hell. That _does_ work."

There was a little pinch, and Jack glared daggers at the nurse, who somehow had three full vials of blood in her hand, had already removed the needle, and was pressing a small square of cotton to the inside of his elbow.

"Hold this, please," she said cheerfully, and Jack did as he was told, letting her focus on her little cart of horrors.

"There's gonna be payback," he warned them, and the Japanese agent just shook his head.

"Well, Jack, gotta get my kicks somehow. While the rest of you lounge around down here, I'm the lucky stiff that drew the short straw for a five hour debrief." Some of the levity on his face seemed to drain away. "I was hoping Mac would wake up before I went up there," and he glanced at his watch, the face of it on the inside of his right wrist instead of the outside of his left, "but fourteen hundred's coming up fast. Someone tell that kid to eat a damn sandwich for me, would you?"

Riley gave the man a smile in lieu of a nod. "Come on. He lives with Bozer. Access to food will _not_ be a problem."

"Damn, I am gonna miss that guy," Saito muttered, and then he leaned off the wall. "After this, we doing shots?"

Jack was reasonably sure the other man meant the alcoholic kind. "You payin'?"

"I'm sorry, these agents?" The nurse motioned between their two beds. "These agents aren't going anywhere."

"Aww, come on, Nurse Ratched!" She gave him a good-natured warning look, and Jack scowled at her. "Okay, look, I seriously just stormed a fortress, took out a militia, arrested a psychopath, rescued my partner, and stole a helicopter! All right? I'm _fine_ , and I am _done_ with all this crap!"

The nurse smiled at him. "It's Nurse Patty, not Nurse Ratched, and we're all impressed, but by the time we get through the backlog and actually examine you, it's going to be too late to barhop. Besides, she's staying here tonight." The nurse indicated Riley, who gave her a mildly alarmed look. "And your partner's not going anywhere either."

Jack closed his mouth for a second. "Have we met?"

She actually laughed. "Sometimes I feel like we must have married in another life. You don't usually see me, Jack."

He tried to piece together what that meant as she wheeled her cart away from his bed and towards Riley's.

"She means because it's usually _you_ in surgery first," a sharp voice explained condescendingly.

Jack tried to decide if watching Nurse Patty Ratched draw Riley's blood was better or worse than dealing with Matilda Webber. It was really kind of a toss-up.

"And if you're feeling so great, hot shot, get over here. I have something to say to you."

He slid off the bed, not surprised that she didn't look even remotely happy to see – well, any of them. She looked a little harried, actually.

"Aren't you supposed to be in a debriefing?"

She cocked her head to the side, coming to a stop just in front of him. "Yes. Instead you're wasting my time. Down here. Now."

Jack grimaced. He was becoming acutely aware that his fling with narcotics had come to an end. He was pretty sure the last thing Kevin had given him was just a big ol' Tylenol, and rather than his usual bend at the waist with hands on his knees, he actually went straight for the one knee approach. "All right, coach, let's have it."

She glared at him, shaking her head. Then she stepped forward and wrapped him up in a hug.

Jack froze stock still.

She whacked him on the shoulder, but didn't pull away. "Shut up."

"Hey, I didn't say anything-" But he did put an arm around her – gently – and give her a little squeeze. "Glad to see you too," he said, much more quietly.

"Don't ever do that again," she ordered him, and then released him and backed up - to continue glaring at him. "And stand up, for god's sake. What are you doing, proposing?"

"Apparently you have to get in line behind Nurse Watches Me Sleep," he grumbled, and did as he was told. "How's Oversight taking it?"

She gave him a look that conveyed more than words ever could, and then stepped out so she could see all the agents, both standing and recumbent. The clinic quieted at once; even medical personnel paused to let her address the room.

"Thank you." She met everyone's eyes, in turn, all around the room. "This was a hard op. One of the hardest I've ever overseen, and not just in the capacity of Director. I know for many of you, it might not feel like a win." She let the silence ring a moment.

"We started this mission with a two agent team sent to escort a wayward diplomat, and we finished it with a fifteen agent team defeating a separatist army, stabilizing an entire country and fellow NATO ally, and exposing double agents deep within the US State Department. You worked miracles. You saved hundreds of thousands of lives. And we sacrificed lives. Four good agents. Good people."

Jack was staring aimlessly at some point over her head, and he saw no reason to stop.

"I know you're tired, and you just got off a long flight. I need you all to stay on campus until debriefings have completed. We've cleared out the fourth floor. Rest. Eat. But most importantly, I want you to remember that what you were able to accomplish, in these past few weeks – there's no other group of people in the world who could have done it. You don't hear this enough: thank you."

Matty gave the room a nod, and then turned on her heels and headed out. After a second, Saito fell in line behind her.

Conversations started up again, but much more subdued. Jack limped around the treatment bed, to where Riley was now holding a square of cotton inside _her_ elbow, and he didn't miss how the nurse gave her a Spongebob Squarepants band-aid. Under their cover of a think-tank, they did a lot of charitable work in the community, and he was sure there was a room, somewhere, that was just full of superhero stickers and coloring books.

Riley gave him an automatic half-smile, but it was clear that in her mind, she was right back in the villa. "Well, I guess we'll all get a rain check on those shots."

Jack just nodded, leaning on his bed – the other side this time – and crossing his arms. "I notice you and Saito seem on pretty friendly terms."

Riley blinked at him. "Uh . . . yeah? Lived in a house with him for three weeks. Cool guy."

He nodded. "Yeah, he's a great guy. Ex Japanese SWAT. Good friend to have."

Riley's head tilted to the side suspiciously. ". . . but . . . "

Jack raised his hands, palm out. "I know it's none of my business, you're a grown woman and you are _more_ than capable of making your own decisions, but you might want to have a coffee with his ex wife before you go have those shots."

Now he had her full and undivided attention. It took her a few seconds to decide where to even start. "Jack, what – look, having a drink with a friend is –" Her mouth stayed open as she searched for the words, and he finally couldn't help it, and started to laugh.

"Oh, I got you." He pointed right at her speechless face. "Yeah. Right there. You know, sometimes you start 'droppin' words' when you get all flustered –"

The speechless mouth went straight to mock outrage. "Dude-"

"You want some ice for that burn?"

"Now, Jack, stop upsetting my patient." A doctor he actually did recognize – the male half of Drs. Talbot and Talbot – came to the other side of Riley's exam bed. "We're about to finish with Agent MacGyver in Imaging, so we'll be taking you back in a few minutes. Once we get a good look at the repairs, we're going to make a few tweaks, to ensure rapid healing and a full recovery of mobility."

All of Jack's hard-won calming results went right out the window. "Wait . . . you mean a second surgery?" She tried to make the question sound light.

Dr. Talbot laid his tablet on the bed. "Yes, but with what we call micro incisions. We don't have to do a general anesthesia unless you'd be more comfortable that way. We're also going to supplement your previous blood product treatment. We'll keep you down here overnight, but you should be up and around tomorrow morning."

Riley just nodded, not looking too thrilled, and Jack patted her left hand. "I'll stick around if you want."

Dr. Talbot cleared his throat delicately, and Jack gave him a warning look.

"Jack, you're headed to Imaging as soon as we're done with her." He threw up a firm hand, just like an orchestra conductor would mute an obnoxiously loud trumpet. "By your own admission you exceeded every mobility limitation these types of injuries indicate. Agent Todd was very specific in his recommendations."

Jack straightened a little, then glared past Dr. Talbot to where Kevin was standing, talking to John. Kevin never met his eyes, but instead he casually angled himself so his back was to Riley's bed.

Someone else was going to get some payback, too, looked like.

"He's got good ears," Riley observed. "Doc, you said you had Mac back there right now?"

Jack refocused on the doctor as he nodded. "He should be out soon. Dr. Talbot will make a decision on his treatment once the images are in."

If Jack's memory served, the male half of Dr. Talbot was the orthopedic and trauma specialist, and the female half was more geared towards cardiac and nerve. Jack typically came in with the former sort of damage, not the latter, so he didn't have the same relationship with Timothy's wife. She seemed nice enough, but –

"Is there something wrong with his heart?"

Dr. Talbot was quick with the reassuring gesture. "Not that we know of. We wanted to get a look at his lungs and his wrists, the rest is just preventative. Keep in mind this is a very healthy man in his mid-twenties. The weight loss looks alarming, but he'll put it back faster than you think."

Jack decided not to pursue that line of questioning in front of Riley. She had enough to worry about. "Is Cage out of surgery yet?"

Timothy smiled, and took his hands off his tablet, clearly coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "Not yet. Melissa's confident that we've identified the remaining fragments of the bullet. I'll be sure to update you when we have more to share."

-M-

It was several hours before Matty could find a moment to get away, and with Saito's initial debrief complete, her next stop was right back in Medical.

Dr. Talbot and Agent Todd were in quiet discussion over a tablet when she walked up. "Director," the doctor greeted her, and Kevin gave her a nod. Melissa then ushered them both into the office she shared with her husband, whom Matty presumed was now in surgery himself, working on Riley's shoulder.

The office was large, to accommodate two doctors, and Kevin grabbed a chair from Tim's side, rolling it over to Melissa's desk as she sat and brought up a few images on the screens behind her.

The first two were clearly brain scans, though Matty didn't immediately recognize any abnormalities. And the doctor didn't start there; she handed Matty a tablet instead.

"I presume you'd like to start with MacGyver."

It was bloodwork. She just skimmed it until she picked out 'lysergic acid diethylamide.'

"LSD?"

"For starters." It was Kevin, not Dr. Talbot, who spoke. "That's his bloodwork when we picked him up eighteen hours ago."

Matty glanced between the two of them. "So they drugged him." That wasn't surprising.

"Repeatedly and routinely. We took a whack at using some of these blends at Guantanamo. A mix of hallucinogens, sedatives, and epinephrine are used in combination with pain and panic techniques to enhance interrogation." Kevin leaned over and pointed out a few more chemicals. "They also hit him with other drugs to induce suggestibility."

"Brainwashing?"

Kevin shook his head. "Hard to know. In combination with the physical stresses he was under, these drugs at these levels . . . poor guy probably thought he was under attack from Martians when we showed up."

It could certainly explain Saito's recollection of the rescue. "What else?"

"Repetitive concussions." It was Dr. Talbot, and she glanced back at the scans. "Not much difference between him and a pro footballer player at the moment, and that's only going to exacerbate his confusion and disorientation." She moved on to images of his right and left wrists. "He's got stress fractures in both wrists and tears in both his rotator cuffs, consistent with the type of bodyweight interrogation the Turkish military employs. We'll put the wrists in braces as soon as the abrasions have had a couple days to start healing, and then I can make a better diagnosis about any permanent tendon or nerve damage to his hands. We can probably address the shoulders with PT."

So far, better than expected. "Anything else major?"

"Gunshot wound to the right hip, required sutures but no surgery. Some electrical burns on his lower abdomen and pelvis, which are worse than they look but soft tissue damage only. He's still flirting with pneumonia, but I think we've got it under control. Most of his ribs are bruised, two cracked, and obviously the dehydration and malnutrition. However . . . no major broken bones, no permanent organ damage. He's in better shape than I ever dared hope."

Which was unexpected, to say the least. And, as much as she hated to think of it that way, unwelcome. If he hadn't been seriously injured, there was a reason for it. You didn't spend three weeks in enemy hands and be in any condition to walk away from it. His joints should have been shattered. The fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, mobile, meant that they needed him to be.

There was something they wanted him to be able to do. And between the cocktail of drugs and torture, there was no telling if they had been successful in making him do it.

"What about Samantha?"

Melissa took a deep breath, but Matty saw immediately it was one of satisfaction. "We identified and removed all the bullet fragments, with no damage to her spine. A little physical therapy, and she should make a full recovery."

They obviously hadn't debriefed Cage or Dalton yet, but from Saito's recollection, the only thing that had saved Samantha from Aydin's sniper was luck.

"And Jack?"

Kevin made a strangled noise, and Matty glanced at him, but he seemed absorbed in reorganizing papers into a folder. Dr. Talbot answered her.

"We were just reviewing his images. The rescue op set his recovery back a few days, but he's in remarkably good shape given the massive trauma he suffered. I'm chalking that up to his constitution and sheer stubbornness. I really don't know how he survived the first forty-eight hours."

Given what he'd written in his report, he didn't really know either.

"I agree with his field medic's assessment of the medical care he received in Greece. No further surgery needed for his abdomen, at least not until it heals up and we see if he develops any herniation. We'll watch the leg, the bullet did take a chip out of his femur, but it seems to be healing well on its own. Bottom line, your three agents are headed for full recoveries. At least physically."

Matty didn't miss the caveat. And she wasn't too worried about Jack or Cage – they were professionals, and these were hard hits, but not the hardest they'd taken. They'd shake it off.

Melissa wasn't referring to them.

"Has Mac said anything?"

Kevin placed his now-closed folder on Dr. Talbot's desk. "He hasn't really had a chance. I hit him with a sedative for the flight – I didn't want to risk him coming around on the plane and panicking. He regained consciousness a couple times towards the end of the trip, which makes sense in hindsight given the drug soup in his blood, but he wasn't aware enough to have figured out what was going on."

So they could expect him to wake not realizing that he was back at Phoenix.

"Where is he now?"

"In Observation One. We gave him a mild sedative to keep him still in imaging. He should awaken sometime in the next hour or so."

Matty digested that and stood, and the doctor and Kevin rose with her. "I'd like to see him."

"Of course."

Matty waited for the doctor to collect her tablet before she preceded them from her office, towards the four private rooms they maintained for situations in which longer term care was required, and a public or private hospital was not ideal. This hall was not typically off limits to the rest of Medical, and that was readily apparent, because while the door to Observation One was closed, there was a very, very tense looking Wilt Bozer prowling around in front of it.

He heard them coming, giving the party a very un-Bozer-like glare, and Matty was a little surprised that her presence didn't temper it. He waited until they were within easy speaking distance, and his voice was hard and flat.

"Did you approve this?"

Matty raised an eyebrow. "Good afternoon, Bozer," she said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

His lips twisted. "Did you," and he stabbed the glass with a finger, "approve this?"

The observation window was a little higher than was comfortable for her to look through without stretching, so she simply walked around him and entered her code into the keypad. There was a very soft click, and Matty pushed the door open.

Given Wilt's body language and clear fury, she expected to see Mac strung up by his toes. Instead, he looked . . . older. He couldn't grow a proper beard for shit but he'd given it his best. Mac was propped up with several large pillows, and the stark white accentuated the bruising and contusions on his visible flesh. They'd run an oxygen cannula – for the pneumonia, no doubt – and he was getting fluids and medications via an IV running to his right elbow. They hadn't bothered with the wireless sensors, the bed was tracking his heart rate and vitals.

And then she finally realized what Bozer's heartburn was about.

She wasn't sure she'd ever seen the normally affable kid so furious. He didn't even try to keep his voice down. "He just spent three weeks as a prisoner, beat to a pulp, they peeled the fucking skin off his wrists, and you approved _this_?"

Mac's wrists were thickly bandaged, and the medical restraints had been placed a little further up than usual, more on his forearms than the dressing. She presumed his ankles had been similarly treated, though a sky blue blanket had been tucked around him and hid any sign of it.

And the reasons should have been obvious. Matty took a breath.

". . . relax, Boze. S'standard operating procedure."

His voice was a little raspy, and Mac swallowed and slowly opened his eyes.

"Mac!" Bozer was at his side instantly, hovering for a moment before putting his hands carefully on his friend's left arm and shoulder. "Hey man. You awake this time? How you feelin'?"

Matty watched him closely as he took in the room and its occupants. His gaze lingered on her, but he answered his anxious roommate.

". . . better, now."

Dr. Talbot had circled behind her, walking unhurriedly to the unoccupied side of the bed, and Matty heard Kevin slip into the hall outside.

MacGyver watched the doctor approach with no sign of trepidation. He did, however, shift his right wrist slightly. She wasn't sure if he was testing the restraints or just adjusting his position.

"Hello, Mac."

He gave her a nod. "Doc."

"How are you feeling?"

If the repetitive question irritated him, he gave no sign of it. ". . . sluggish. A little lightheaded. But I'm okay." His voice wasn't flat; he added a slight lilt to the end that made it sound relieved and sincere. His gaze shifted from Dr. Talbot back to her, and he gave her a deeper nod. His blue eyes were a little glazed but steady. "Thank you."

Matty gave him a rueful smile. "I'm just glad you're back, Blondie."

He accepted that with a typical MacGyver half-smile, and then Dr. Talbot – again, unhurriedly – removed the stethoscope from around her neck. "You mind if I listen to your lungs?"

Mac shook his head, not visibly tensing as the doctor laid the tool on his chest. The room was quiet, including Bozer, as she examined him. Melissa was gentle as she moved the stethoscope around his chest. "Can you lean forward for me?"

He complied, grimacing a little, and when he realized what he'd done, he followed it up with a reassuring look at Boze.

Dr. Talbot placed the stethoscope on his back, but he didn't jump, or seem alarmed. "Deep breaths."

Mac did as instructed, then leaned further away from the stethoscope to cough. It was deep and rattling, and his hands finally did pull at the medical restraints, a little. He quickly settled for hacking into his right shoulder. It didn't last long; both Bozer and Talbot tried to lean him back, and he didn't fight them.

"Well, the good news is that your coughs sound productive. We're giving you an expectorant. I know it doesn't feel good on those ribs, but we need to get your lungs cleared."

He just nodded, swallowing down another cough and slowly relaxing back against the pillows.

The doctor tucked the stethoscope away and pulled a ballpoint pen from her pocket. Mac watched her, but still gave no visible sign of tension.

"Can you follow this for me?"

His eyes tracked a little unevenly, particularly on the upward movements, and the doctor merely nodded, and put the pen back in her pocket. Then she slipped her hand into his.

It was the first time Matty caught a physical reaction. He flinched, just a little, though his facial expression never changed.

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

He apparently complied, because after a moment Dr. Talbot smiled, and patted his hand with her other one. "Good."

There was no further flinch or sign of distrust as the doctor released him and picked up her tablet, charting her observations.

"Mac."

He focused back on her, dropping his chin a little. It was the same look he'd give her in her office, when he was waiting for her to get down to business. It should have been reassuring.

Matty played along, giving him her own game face. "Do you know where you are?"

The half smile returned. "Observation One, I'm guessing. Janitor left a dusty fingerprint on the far right ceiling tile."

Bozer took the bait first, looking up, and then he shook his head. "Mac, only you would notice something like that."

He gave a little shrug. "Spent a lot of time looking at this ceiling over the years, Boze."

All of that was true. And yet she couldn't help but notice he hadn't said anything. Hadn't recognized Dr. Talbot by name. Hadn't recognized her by name. Hadn't said he was at the Phoenix, in LA, in the United States for that matter.

And yet he had said Bozer's name. Repeatedly.

"Do you recognize me?"

Mac refocused on her. "Director Matilda Webber."

She graced him with a smile. "Do you know who came and got you?" Might as well find out now.

His brows quirked, just a little, and his eyes shifted to the left as he thought. Soon enough, they came back to her and stayed there. "Not really. Things . . . are a little jumbled." He swallowed, then squeezed his eyes shut for a second and blinked them wide. "I remember . . . explosions. And . . . maybe a helicopter?"

He couldn't have been more generic if he'd tried. "What's the last thing you do remember?"

Bozer gave his shoulder a squeeze, and then turned and glared at her. "Do we have to do this now-"

"It's okay, Boze." Mac didn't sound angry. "The last thing I remember clearly was . . . my interrogator was called out. The colonel's men were rattled. When they came back, they didn't ask me any questions, just took me back to my cell. After that . . ." He let it trail off a second, but his eyes never left hers. ". . . did I hurt anyone?"

It was a strange question for him to ask, if he didn't remember. "Why would you think that?"

He canted his head towards his right side and gently shifted his wrist. "You wouldn't ask me about the extraction unless it didn't exactly go according to plan."

She did smile, then, genuinely. "When was the last time an extraction went according to plan?"

His eyebrows lifted in apparent agreement. "Still. Is everyone okay?"

She knew what he was looking for, and she decided to offer the olive branch first. "Riley's a little banged up, she's your next door neighbor. Bozer too."

Mac's focus turned instantly to Bozer, in possibly the first unguarded expression she'd seen from him since she'd walked in. Boze released his arm only to hold up his hands.

"Dude, I'm fine. Really." She was a little surprised he didn't mention Jack, but either he'd realized that piece of information might not go over well, or it just didn't cross his mind. "Just a couple bruised ribs is all. I should stop giving you guys crap about that, it really hurts!"

Mac scoffed. "Yeah, not fun. You okay, really?"

Bozer patted Mac on the shoulder. "Yeah man. We're good if you're good."

Mac took what, for his condition, was probably a deep breath. "I'll be okay, Boze. Really."

He focused back on her, clearly waiting for another question, so she threw him a softball. "Anything we can get you? Anything you need?"

The young blond glanced at his IV, following it up to the many bags hanging from the four arms. "Looks like I'm all set." Then he seemed to think better of it. "No offense, Boze, but I'd kill for a burger and malt from that place in Glendale."

"You mean Darfon's, on San Fernando?"

His eyes slid back to hers, and she gave him a smirk. "Did I pass?"

His half-smile also seemed a little more natural. ". . . was I that obvious?"

Matty nodded. "More than a little, Mac. You're not quite on your game."

Mac gave her a one-shouldered shrug. "Told you. Light-headed."

"And I'm sorry about that," Dr. Talbot apologized. "We're giving you a mild painkiller to reduce your discomfort. It might make you a little drowsy."

"A little?" His protest had no heat, and was punctuated with a half-suppressed yawn.

Melissa gave him a knowing look. "We're monitoring the concussion, so I'm afraid tonight's not going to be very conducive for a good night's sleep. You're going to have to nap your way through the next couple days."

The news didn't seem to be a surprise. "I'll take it, doc. Better than the alternative."

Dr. Talbot patted him on the arm again. "Can't sign off on a burger or a shake, but if you're feeling up to it, we can try solid food for dinner."

Matty expected Bozer to volunteer some type of world famous something, but all he did was drop his hands to the bedrails. "I'll make sure it's actually food, Mac. Don't you worry."

Mac took another controlled breath, turning the half-smile on Bozer. "I'd expect nothing less."

"We can wait a few days on the debrief." No reason to tell him that wait was mandatory, given his detox regiment. "Get some rest, Goldilocks. I'll check back on you tomorrow."

He nodded, giving the room another once-over. His eyes briefly landed on the TV, but it didn't seem to interest him, and Matty knew from his eye movements he wasn't capable of concentrating enough to read. Still, a bored MacGyver was a dangerous MacGyver.

"Bozer, I can move your debrief to tomorrow if you'd like to stay."

His eyes were a little more calm than they had been in the hallway, but there was still something rigid and disapproving in the depths. ". . . yeah, thanks Matty. Think I will. At least until nap time."

Mac rolled his eyes, but he didn't protest, and then he stifled another yawn.

Matty reached up and patted Mac on the foot, giving Dr. Talbot a nod and taking her leave. Bozer should know better than to contradict the doctor's orders on the restraints, and quite frankly, the fact that he hadn't volunteered what had happened to him – or the rest of the team – told her he had enough sense to let Mac recover for a few days before giving him anything he might construe as bad news.

The door clicked quietly as she entered her code, and she pulled it open, waiting for it to close behind her and re-engage the magnetic lock. Dr. Talbot was either going to have to give Bozer a code, or he was going to have to buzz in and out via the nurse. Matty glanced down the hall, unsurprised to see Kevin waiting for her, just outside of direct line of sight of the observation window. She headed down the hallway she would take to return to the ground floor, and Kevin started walking with her once she reached him.

"What do you think?"

Matty considered her words, half hoping her silence would encourage the other agent to talk. But Kevin was no fool. He wanted to know what she thought before he offered any kind of opinion.

"He's skeptical." He probed for details without giving many himself. He'd displayed the behaviors he knew they would expect. The dry tone, the amused expressions. He'd clamped down on any kind of negative response – except when Dr. Talbot had taken his hand, which had been the only thing she'd done without communicating her intentions beforehand.

But he wasn't treating Bozer like he was treating the rest of them. He seemed truly at ease with his roommate's presence, which made no sense to her. How could Mac be so confident that Bozer really was Bozer, when he was so guarded with the rest of them?

Still, skeptical was good. It was pretty clear he was putting on a show, but at least he was approaching the situation logically. And he hadn't said anything that could be considered confidential. Anyone who knew his real name knew he shared an address with Wilt Bozer. Anyone who looked up the Phoenix Foundation could see that the director of the think tank was named Matilda Webber. He'd pointed out the dark smudged thumbprint on the acoustic ceiling tile, telling her he'd noticed that detail.

She had no illusions that he was as well as he seemed, but she'd seen no indication that he was hallucinating or delirious.

Kevin didn't offer any comment, and she fought to keep the frown off her face. "Remind me to make sure we changed all the access codes in Medical."

Just in case.

-M-

It was close to midnight when the patient in Observation One activated his call button.

Tasha was at the standing desk charting, and she glanced to her left at the cameras along the counter. The light was on in Observation One, and Mac was sitting up in bed. He wasn't moving around much, apparently content to wait, and she added a quick log to the chart before she grabbed her tablet and made her way quietly down the hallway. She passed Observation Two, the door thrown wide open, and saw that her other patients were still fast asleep. One was in the bed, the other was stretched out beside her in the recliner. She pulled the door halfway shut as she passed, then continued to the next room, entering her code and quietly pushing open the door.

He was sitting in the same position she'd already observed, and given his expression, was in some amount of discomfort. Tasha gave him a bright smile. It wasn't often she had the pleasure of treating Angus MacGyver, but he had basically saved her marriage about four months ago with a pair of polarized sunglasses, a watch face, and a laser pointer, and even before then he was just a very easy guy to get along with.

"Hey Mac. What's wrong?"

He was sitting a little more upright than he had been earlier, and he looked a cross between pained and embarrassed. "Ah . . . I think those antibiotics you've been pumping me full of have just won the war on my intestinal flora, if you get my drift."

She did indeed. His digestive tract was already dysfunctional from the prolonged lack of nutrients, and giving him strong antibiotics for the pneumonia, coupled with mild edema in his intestines, had probably led to a very unhappy colon.

"I'm sorry about that. Comes with the territory, I'm afraid." She pulled her keychain and unlocked the cabinet in the room, coming up with a bed pan, and didn't miss the look of dismay on her patient's face.

". . . I promise I won't fall," he started, and she shook her head regretfully.

"It's out of my hands, Mac. And it's really not as bad as it looks." She held up the dark yellow plastic. "I can run it under hot water to warm it up for you?"

He looked at the plastic a long moment, and then back up at her.

"Trust me, that's not going to do the job."

Reassuring him of the total volume of a human bowel – which in his case would be mostly empty, no matter how irritated it felt - versus the total volume of the bed pan was probably not going to help. "It's okay, we've got some seriously good bedpads, and frankly the wet wipes are so awesome I take some home any time I have an intestinal thing going on."

He hesitated, dropping his eyes back to the plastic, and something in them just about broke her heart. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft. ". . . I've been crapping in a clay flowerpot for three weeks. Please just let me use the toilet."

Tasha didn't know what to say. She knew where he'd been – everyone who was going to be treating him had read his medical file. She knew why he was in medical restraints. Any agent who had been in hostile custody for more than twenty-four hours, and had been subjected to – what he had been subjected to, was under continuous nursing monitoring for psychotic, violent, or self-destructive behavior, and physical restraints were part of that regiment.

His file indicated they suspected all three were a possibility. He'd been reserved during her shift, mostly napping, but he hadn't said or done anything that made her think for even a second that he was having a psychotic episode, or that he meant her any harm. The longer he stayed attached to those IVs, the fewer drugs remained in his system, and the less concentrated the doses became.

Which left self-harm as the possibility she still needed to guard against.

She wavered, and he shook his head slightly. "Nevermind. I understand."

Tasha pressed her lips together, and carried the bed pan into the private bathroom off the patient room, flipping on the light. Protocol had already been executed, there was absolutely nothing he could get his hands on that was sharp, long enough or mounted high enough to let him hang himself, or could be torn into small enough pieces to let him choke himself. Except toilet paper, and that was definitely something he was going to need.

He was one of the most upbeat people she'd ever met, and the room met requirements. It wasn't like he was going to be unmonitored, either. She could just ask him to keep the door open. And even if she had to leave the room, if he disconnected any of his IVs to free up the tubing, they'd get an alert at the nursing station.

She knew why the protocols were in place, but at the same time, there was no point in executing protocols, potentially degrading ones, when they were no longer needed.

Tasha checked the bathroom one more time, then exited, bed pan still in hand and unwarmed. He was staring at his lap, preparing himself for something he clearly didn't want to do, and she made her decision.

"Okay, Mac. But only," and she gestured at him with the bedpan, as his eyes came back up to hers, "if you _promise_ not to fall."

The gratitude in his expression somehow made it worse, and she busied herself turning up the corner of the blanket to access his ankle restraints. They were easy to release, and he didn't move as she folded the blanket to the other side of the bed, and brought down the bed rail.

"Can you raise your right arm for me?"

He did as he was asked, and she loosened his right wrist. He now had three limbs free, and he did absolutely nothing other than slowly maneuver them out of the fabric loops. A trip to the other side of the bed to loosen his left wrist put her between him and the door, just in case he made a mad dash.

He didn't. Mac instead reached up and carefully peeled away the medical tape securing his O2 cannula, dropping it up over and behind his head. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed gingerly, and waited for her to come back around and help him stand. She untangled his IV stand from the bed's wheels and got him on his feet.

"Door stays open, Mac, and leave the IV stand outside so I can see it, okay?"

He nodded, apparently afraid to trust his voice, and she helped him to the door of the bathroom. True to his nod, he released the IV stand, and they maneuvered it so it was as far outside the bathroom as possible without pulling too much on the tubing or his arm.

Her pocket buzzed, letting her know the shift was over, and once he was settled on the toilet and in no danger of accidentally cracking his skull open, she went back to Mac's bed and picked up her tablet.

Ryan couldn't go off-shift until she finished charting. And she wasn't about to rush the patient. Tasha fished her iPhone out of her pocket and hit the Nurse Station icon in the upper righthand corner.

It rang once. "Hey. I see you," Ryan answered. "Dr. Talbot's not gonna be happy."

She gave the camera a tight smile. "I'll take the heat, don't worry."

He grunted. "Camilla and Lee are here for shift change. Pretty sure they can handle him, they're pretty fierce."

Camilla was on a semi-pro roller derby team, in the jammer position. Lee was retired Army and she was pretty sure his two hundred and thirty pounds were solid muscle. She had no doubts they could handle anything Mac threw at them.

But it wasn't going to be an issue. Because Mac was going to be fine, and he was going to finish up taking care of business, and then they were going to put him back to bed and go off shift.

"I agree. Go ahead and give them the highlights, and I'll finish up the charting when we're done in here."

She hung up the phone, slipping it back into her pocket, and from the bathroom, she heard Mac sigh.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry, but this is gonna take a few minutes. I didn't mean to catch you at the end of shift."

"No worries at all, Mac. You don't have a clock in here," she reminded him.

Her pocket buzzed again, and she pulled out the phone. It was a text from Ryan.

_Lee wants to know if we sedated Jack._

Those were eight very dangerous words. First, the we. There hadn't been a we. There had been a her. Secondly, giving the man a muscle relaxer with his anti-inflammatories and pain meds didn't necessarily warrant being labeled 'sedation.' Even if she had accompanied it with a heavy meal courtesy of the catering upstairs on four for the agents that were confined to campus. And then insisted that he stay in Riley's room, which met his requirement of staying as near to MacGyver as possible without actually being in the room, and also of staying as near to Riley Davis as possible without actually being in a bed himself.

Dr. Talbot had been extremely specific. No one was to mention the name Jack Dalton in MacGyver's presence. No one was to allow MacGyver to see Jack Dalton. No one was to allow MacGyver to hear Jack Dalton. Frankly, she was a little afraid to even reply to the text.

_I'll fill Lee in when I get out._

She received three dots, indicating the other nurse was composing a reply, and it didn't take long to come through.

_Lee has questions about Jack's pain management._

She looked up at the camera in exasperation, and mouthed ' _are you kidding me'_?

More dots. _He's snoring. Lee wants to know if we need to treat._

Did his chart say they'd given him morphine? No. No it did not. All Lee had to do was log into the PYXIS and –

And he couldn't. Because he wasn't on shift yet. Because she had to finish the charting.

It was more than she could text without just telling him no.

"How you doing in there, Mac?"

She heard fabric shift a little. "Uh, like I said. Gonna be a few minutes."

Tasha glanced between the phone and the bathroom. Mac was, for all intents and purposes, on camera. He couldn't go anywhere, and he couldn't do much of anything without them seeing something.

"Okay, I'm gonna be right back. I just need to finish something up, and then we'll introduce you to the care team who's going to take over for us for the rest of the night. Sound good?"

Mac cleared his throat. "Sounds good. Thank you."

Tasha smiled in his direction, hoping he could hear it in her voice. "No problem at all, Mac. Be right back. If you need anything, there's a red button directly across from you."

"Yeah, I see it."

"Don't get up without us, okay?"

". . . I made you a promise, didn't I?"

Not to fall over. That he had.

Tasha coded out of the door, making sure to hide the buttons, just in case Mac could see from his perch, and pulled the door open, stepping back out into the hallway and pulling the door shut quickly as she was immediately reminded that Jack was snoring.

And he was. Loudly. A glance through the cracked door showed that Riley was somehow, remarkably, sleeping through it, and Tasha hurried quietly down the hallway to the other nurses.

"Sorry, Ryan," she apologized quickly, logging back into the machine and pulling up her unfinished chart. "Let me just add –"

"I don't think there's an ICD code for 'threw physician orders out window'."

She graced Ryan with a glare. "Har har." She glanced past him at the monitor, showing exactly what she knew it would; most of the IV pole, and the open bathroom door. There were no alarms on the console.

"You didn't see him," she added, in a much quieter voice. "What he's been through . . ."

Lee and Camilla were quiet, just watching the cameras as she quickly finished the chart. When she finally came up, it was with a triumphant grin.

"I am officially charted and signed off. They are all yours." Then she focused on Lee. "As for Jack, no he's not sedated, yes he is snoring, and none of the pain meds he's on impact his respiration in any way. He's just snoring because he's on his back and he's probably really, really tired."

Ryan snapped his fingers. "Oh! It's in the chart, and Dalton is aware, but make sure you don't mention him to or around MacGyver. Doc Talbot thinks it'll just add to the confusion."

Camilla's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, you mean Jack's not allowed to see MacGyver?" When Tasha nodded, she just whistled. "That's a hell of a trick. Why _didn't_ you sedate him?"

The other nurse had a good point. Jack was already tightly wound with his own injuries and withdrawal symptoms, and being informed by none other than Director Webber herself that Mac was not to see or hear him had pretty much sent the battered agent right over the edge. It was nothing short of miraculous that he was obeying, and she thought that, in good part, that was due to her compromise.

"Because I don't want to explain to Dr. Talbot why he's putting twenty-two stitches back in because Jack Dalton ripped them out hacking his way through a wall with a ka-bar."

"Wasn't he Delta?" Lee thumbed over at the camera in Observation Two, which was largely too dark to see anything. "That's Army."

Right. Marines were the ones with ka-bars, and they were Navy. "Same difference."

"Ooh," Ryan countered. "Yeah, don't say that. Like, to anyone. Ever again."

Behind them, an alert chimed.

She knew what it was almost before she looked, and Tasha was back down the hallway in a flash, entering her code at the door to Observation One. Please let it just be a tangle in the line. Please just let it be a tangle.

The keypad didn't respond to her code, no sound or lights, but oddly enough the doorhandle worked, and she was able to push open the door without any resistance.

The IV pole was still there, right where she'd left just, mostly outside the bathroom door. It was sitting in a puddle, there was a steady drip coming from the saline bag, and the cannula that had been in Mac's right arm had been inserted into the top of the saline bag, into the area of the plastic that had been pulled taut in a vacuum.

MacGyver himself was nowhere to be seen.

Tasha ducked back out into the hallway, looking up both sides, but the only people she saw were Lee and Camilla. She raced back to the nurse's station, shaking her head at Ryan's questioning look and grabbing the phone. The main security desk picked up after the first ring.

"This is Medical. I have a Code Walker."

-M-

Merry Christmas, to those of you who celebrate! With all the holiday prep, real life took over for a little while there, and of course when I found some time between wrapping presents and baking cookies and driving around like a lunatic, I managed to write only about ten hours' worth of one day in this little story universe.

A Code Walker is when a patient leaves the unit without permission – they call it eloping. I think Mac calls it escaping. As always, I meant to get further, but this chapter was very hard to write, and I promise the next chapter won't take quite as long as this one did.


	19. Chapter 19

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Jack surveyed the bathroom for a long moment.

Frank just kept talking. "We checked everything. There's no spring in the toilet paper holder for him to have taken. The sink and the shower haven't been touched. It's a tankless toilet, there's nothing he could have removed. There's _nothing_ in here."

His eyes went back to the sink, and then Jack bent - slowly - and pulled open the sink cabinet door. He had never, in point of fact, sold bathroom tile, but he had grown up in a farm, and was no stranger to repairing plumbing fixtures. There was nothing obviously wrong with the sink drain, and Jack reached into the cabinet and felt around behind the PVC trap for the lift-up rod that controlled whether the drain was open or closed.

Sure enough, the clip that was supposed to hold the pivot rod to the lift-up rod was gone. It was normally stamped from cheap iron, and was just the right size to short the keypad and maglock on the door.

Jack used the counter to lever himself back up, ignoring Frank, and returned to the main room. Then he walked over to the right side of the bed in Observation One, and stared at the glass.

Mac had known when the shift was going to end. He'd been in and out all afternoon, and there was no natural light on the floor. The TV had never been turned on. Even if he'd looked at the nurse's watch the last time she'd checked on him, it had been hours before midnight. How the hell had he known what time it was?

There was no visible clock in the hallway, and certainly not one in the room. Jack studied the glass observation window a moment longer, then leaned sideways over the bed - again, stiffly - and looked at the reflections from the hall.

The hall lights were still turned down - it was two o'clock in the morning, after all, and Riley and Cage were still asleep. Jack could make out reflections on the plastic-coated surface of the hallway, that protected the wall from gurney and equipment bumps and dents. It looked like a reflection from the kitchenette, Jack could make out a fridge. He leaned further onto the bed, putting his head nearer to the pillows -

And there was the reflection of the clock, right over the goddamned fridge.

"Wait. What do you see?"

Jack didn't say a word. He pushed himself up from the mattress, ignoring his gut, and headed for the door. The keypad had been pried off, and dangled by a flat cable that attached to a forest green board. They knew he'd shorted the mechanism, so there was no mystery there.

Nor was there any mystery afterwards. They'd had him on camera the entire time.

Jack Dalton glanced into Observation 2, where Riley was still sound asleep, exhausted from her second surgery and jetlag. She was gonna be pissed when she woke up, that they hadn't gotten her up and told her, but it wasn't like they'd had to hack the NSA to get the camera footage. It was their own damn system.

His eyes fell to the chair in the far corner of the room, where Nurse Ryan had put a set of Phoenix-issue warm up pants and a long-sleeved shirt, folded up nice and neat, for him to change into when he'd woken up. Jack's mind recalled the footage easily. Mac had pulled his own door open unhurriedly, not drawing attention to himself by using slow, deliberate movements, and waltzed right in their room. Literally right by the recliner he'd been sacked out in. In the darkened room, Mac had pulled on the spare clothes, as if he'd known they'd be there, over his hospital gown. The footage was grainy because the room had been almost completely dark, but the shadowed, dark grey figure had then stopped at the end of Riley's bed for a few seconds before he'd reappeared in the hallway, and walked calmly straight for the exit.

Jack followed his path, down the same hallway. The exit was only fifteen yards away, and a commonly used exit from Medical, because less than twenty feet from it was the entrance to the locker rooms. The exit, being so close to the Observation rooms, was secured with a keypad, badge reader, and maglock, and it had also been pried off and shorted, in exactly the same manner.

Mac had recoiled when he'd bypassed that door, the same as he had in Observation One. Clearly getting out had been worth the shocks.

Jack pulled open the door, crossing the hallway to the locker room. With so many agents upstairs on four, and so many others celebrating their return, the locker room was full of gear. Finding a pair of sneakers, car keys and an ID hadn't taken Mac more than twenty seconds. Jack walked along the bench, marking the exact moment the alert had gone off at the nurse's station, and they'd realized he was gone.

He wasn't as clear on why Mac's rigging the saline bag to leak and jamming the other end back into the same damn saline bag had delayed the alarm. Something about keeping a vacuum on the IV line and keeping fluid running until enough air had gotten in to break the vacuum. It had been a temporary solution, had bought him a little over a minute. Jack walked to the opposite end of the locker room, which put him out into a different hallway, and he used the fire extinguisher to mark when Security had first been notified Mac had gotten out.

Mac had walked down this hallway at a normal speed, he was in Phoenix-issue grey and sneakers at that point and had his back to the camera, looking exactly like any other agent heading home after a workout. It was a long hallway, this had been his riskiest move by far but Security had been looking in the hallways immediately outside Medical first, and Mac had used the ID of one Whittaker, Bruce to scan out into the parking garage.

He'd had a limited choice on cars, and had picked one of the older fobs, to a 2003 Toyota Camry. It was smart enough to honk when he paged it, but not so smart that it was GPS enabled, and Mac had slipped in and quietly pulled away. Jack stopped at the end of the aisle, looking towards the gate.

He didn't need to walk the rest of Mac's path. He'd driven right out of the parking garage, going the speed limit, and he'd badged out of the side gate about twenty-two seconds before Security realized they couldn't easily locate him, and locked down the perimeter.

One of the analysts he should probably recognize, but didn't, was combing the city's traffic cameras for the Camry. If Mac still had any part of that ginormous brain of his intact - and apparently he did - he'd ditched that car within twenty miles, in a parking lot with no cameras, and he was in the wind.

Frank hadn't followed him out to the parking lot, a fact for which Jack was briefly grateful, and he turned and walked back to the building entrance, badging in and slamming the door behind him.

The trip back to the second floor was much more crowded than it should have been at two am. Security had pieced together Mac's escape path within about seven minutes of the alarm sounding in Medical, long after he'd cleared the property, but by then everyone on four, still awake thanks to jetlag, had noticed the red lockdown light over the elevators and promptly circumvented it. Once that happened, and the news got out, no one really wanted to go back up to four, and so the majority of the team that had so recently returned from retrieving Mac from Turkey were now focused on retrieving him from Los Angeles.

Without leaving the goddamned campus, because debriefs weren't finished yet.

Jack bypassed Matty's office, heading instead to the TOC. Most of the Phoenix Foundation's larger ops were run from the tactical operations center, which resembled a cross between a NASA ground control facility and an NSA analyst cube farm. John and Saito were seated in one of the cubicles, both with their arms crossed and in matching headsets, monitoring four teams of agents physically scouring a twenty mile radius for the missing Camry. Zee wasn't far, half-sitting on a desk staring over an analyst's shoulder. Alleycat and Kevin were sitting in actual chairs, being interviewed by someone Jack had never seen before, but Jill was standing right there, looking fresh as a daisy and wiggling her fingers over a tablet, so he presumed they were making a list of places most likely to have the supplies Mac was going to need.

If he was even with it enough to know where the hell he was.

Jack scrubbed his face and tried to figure out which exits from the building had already been released from lockdown.

"Where have you been?"

He didn't look at her, and he didn't say a word. Bozer was still stuck in the building with the rest of them, he wasn't actually sure where the kid was, but Wilt was his next stop. Matty had dispatched agents to their house, in the hopes Mac would head there, but Jack was fairly sure that was the one place they could be sure he wouldn't -

"Jack."

Jack shook off her voice like an annoying fly. Mac had been capable enough to escape, and he was clearly feeling threatened, he was going to find a hole to hide in until he could get his shit together. He'd need to get himself a new set of wheels, and some cash. Boze might know if Mac'd -

"Dalton! I'm talking to you!"

He turned on her quick as thought, and her stature was the only thing that saved her from being struck by a defensively raised hand. She _had_ been about to reach for him, and her own hand had just as quickly been withdrawn. Her surprise only lasted for a second, it ignited in a flash and Jack knew he'd just lost any chance at being permitted to leave campus.

"My office. _Now_."

They'd attracted attention only in the back of the room, and Jack kept his jaw clamped tight, turning on his heels and marching back out of the TOC. The glass of Matty's office was already frosted, and when he walked in, he was legitimately surprised to see there was no one else in the room.

He walked straight to the center. Her monitors were split between tracking the agents over a map of the greater Los Angeles area, and various action reports. Nothing there he hadn't seen in the TOC.

Behind him, he heard the door close. "Jack -"

"God _damn_ it!" he roared, actively looking for something to break. The only things around were furniture, which wouldn't be nearly satisfying enough. He turned, casting around the room for something, _anything_ to vent some of the frustration, and the only thing around was Matty.

And god did she deserve it.

"What the fuck were you _thinking_?! Hey, he's been tortured for three weeks, let's drug him, tie him to a fucking bed and lock the goddamn door! That'll make him feel right at home!"

Her eyes were black pools of ice. "Jack, get ahold of yourself-"

"No!" He sliced the air with a hand. "Don't you get it? This is _your_ fault, Matty! Your fault! He's been trying to escape these guys for weeks, and we put him right back in the same scenario! And you were worried what he'd think about me?!"

Jack grabbed the back of his head, trying to keep a pounding headache at bay. " _Fuck!_ "

He was all alone out there. With their drugs in his system, now, on top of whatever else he was struggling with.

Mac had walked right past him, like he wasn't even there. And Jack hadn't even noticed. Hadn't even woken up.

"And now it's a goddamn manhunt! You really rolled out the welcome wagon for him, didn't ya! You really think he's gonna come back in _now_? Huh? You think he'll walk up to one of our agents nice as pie and hop in the car like a lost goddamn puppy? Christ! He could be anywhere!"

Jack turned on the map of the city, just in time to see the perimeter get moved out – significantly. His hands were still on the back of his head, and he scrubbed his hair helplessly. " _Now_ what?!"

A window popped up, showing Jill's face and the back wall of the TOC. "Director, the safehouse in Compton was accessed seven minutes ago. We've already dispatched two teams."

"Show me." Matty's voice was deceptively calm.

Jill nodded, and then the screen shifted from her face to camera footage. Sure enough, a familiar shape in grey Phoenix sweats entered through the back door. The camera footage followed him through the house. His first stop was one of the upstairs bedrooms; he dropped to one knee and used both hands to pull one of the go-bags out from under the bed. Mac wasted no time in ridding the duffel of some of the clothes, and stripped off the sweats and hospital gown, exchanging them for jeans, a tee, and a charcoal hoodie.

He hadn't turned on a single light in the house, but the cameras were configured for low light, and he didn't look any better than he had in Bumfuck. All the clothes were too big.

"Is this live?"

"I'm afraid not," Jill's voice replied. "He's already gone. But he's still in the Camry, and we're trying to get a net established."

"Why the hell didn't we get an alert the second the safehouse was accessed?"

Mac grabbed the duffel and moved back downstairs to the living room, pulling out the various first aid and supply kits. He popped a small flashlight into his mouth, and started selecting items and tossing them in the duffel bag.

Jill's voice was apologetic. "Sorry, Jack. He used a one time access code, I wasn't alerting on those since we have active agents in the city . . ."

And it was the closest goddamn one, too. He must have figured on that - hit the first place he came to and count on speed to keep him ahead of his pursuers.

Mac certainly wasn't wasting any time. He was choosey about the supplies, trying to keep the weight and size on the duffel down, and then he hit the kitchen, grabbing protein bars and powders rather than heavier fare.

He hesitated for a second, staring at the kitchen island, and then he pulled open one of the drawers. It took him another long moment to make up his mind, and he withdrew a nine mil and tucked it into the duffel as well. Then he was out the door.

Jack rubbed his eyes. _What're you thinkin', buddy?_

"Agents are completing the search of the grid. No sightings so far."

"Thank you, Jill." Matty's voice was all business. "Keep us in the loop."

"Yes, director." The window closed.

Jack put his hands back on his head, trying to cram the pain back deep down in his skull where it wouldn't interfere. At this point, it was almost worth relapsing, just to be able to fucking _think_ again.

"Where would he go?"

"Well, how the hell should I know?" Jack paced towards the screens, watching the map. "He's on the run, Matty! He's not gonna do anything he thinks anybody'd anticipate."

"Is he?"

She didn't offer anything else, forcing him to turn around and acknowledge her. She hadn't moved very far from the door, and her expression was still icy.

He didn't give a damn if she was angry. She should have fucking known better.

He should have fucking known better.

"He seems to know where he is. Took the most direct route from the building. Went straight to a safehouse to resupply. He can drive, he can navigate the city, he just took a week's worth of supplies and a _gun_ , Jack –"

Yeah. He sure as hell had. "He's _scared,_ Matty! You saw him! He knows he's wrecked and we both know he just took the damn thing for the bullets-"

"Really? Because yesterday he pulled a gun on you."

She'd heard the whole damn op, of course she'd bring that up. "He pulled the gun on Colonel Aydin, actually, and he only turned on me 'cause he didn't know who I was!"

"Why is he waving guns around at all?" She gestured at the screens. "I've been here over a year and I've never seen him touch one! Even when his life and yours were on the line! Now he's suddenly channeling Dirty Harry? Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

She hadn't seen his face, back in Bumfuck. Seen his eyes. None of them had, Saito had been behind him and Zee had been too far back.

The colonel and his men had hurt him. Bad, to get him to wear a face like that. Jack didn't blame the kid for running, especially if he thought he was still with 'em. "Matty, he doesn't know who to trust! The harder we push him, the further he's gonna run!"

"Jack, we can't risk him out there! He's been drugged to the eyebrows and he's not going be _close_ to getting clean for another forty-eight hours. It wasn't just interrogation, Jack. They may have tried conditioning him."

He stared at her, flabbergasted. "Brainwashing?" He barked a laugh. "You think he's on some kinda _mission_?! Matty, there ain't no way anyone could brainwash that kid! His damn brain's too big!" And they sure as hell couldn't get it done in three weeks.

Matty suddenly looked very, very tired. "Why is he still alive, Jack? Have you asked yourself that yet? Not only is he alive, but now he's running around loose in Los Angeles. Why do you think they left him in any condition to escape?"

She was twisting every detail she could get her hands on, and it took him a second to calm down enough to use words. She took his silence as an invitation to keep talking.

"They sure as hell didn't keep him around for his boyish charm, Jack. He either cooperated with them in some way and made himself useful, or they _needed_ him mobile for some reason."

"And we'll never know," he seethed, "if we don't get him _back_ , Matty. You hunt him down like we hunted down the colonel and this could all go sideways real fast! You really want a goddamn car chase down the 405?!"

"Of course not! And no, Jack, I _don't_ think he's about to go assassinate the President," she added sharply. "But what if he's wandering around downtown and sees someone he thinks is one of Aydin's men? They wanted something from him, and then he's miraculously rescued by the same partner he saw _executed_ , and poof, wakes up back in LA. He probably thinks he's hallucinating all of it! Imagine what would happen if the LAPD tried to arrest MacGyver in this condition!"

If his hair was longer, Jack might have ripped it out. "Running him down like a dog ain't gonna work! Matty, I went through hell to get him back, and I'm _not_ gonna lose him on home turf!"

"I know, Jack. I know." Her expression softened, just a little. "But you're not helping him like this."

"And this is?!" He turned back to the map, watching the perimeter spread ever outward as the minutes clicked by. In a few hours, rush hour traffic would limit his options. He'd find a place to hide before then.

"You gotta let me go out there." There was nothing, literally nothing he could do from the office or the TOC.

"Did you hear a word I just said?" She jabbed a finger at him. "You are dead to him. He saw you die. If Mac has any awareness of his current situation at all, seeing you is all but _proof_ to him that he's hallucinating!"

He had stopped at the end of Riley's bed, like he'd been looking at her. Maybe both of them, but definitely her. If Mac had seen him, had recognized him like he clearly recognized Riley, why the hell hadn't he said something? Done something? Tried to wake him up, or even just reached out and touched him?

Why the hell hadn't he woken up when Mac had come into that room? How the hell could he have slept through it?

God, if he had just woken up. This never woulda happened.

Jack scrubbed his face as some of the anger started to ebb, replaced by bone-deep worry. She was right. This wasn't helping Mac.

But neither was a damn manhunt. There had to be another way to figure out where he'd go. Jack was briefly reminded of his interrupted plan to find Bozer. Maybe if they had an actual destination in mind, he could at least make sure they sent a friendly face. If Mac had recognized Riley, he might recognize someone else. Bozer. Jill.

"We need to find him, Jack, and we need to do it fast. Before he gets hurt, or he hurts someone else."

"He's not gonna hurt anyone," Jack snapped.

The shadow of Mac's eyes flashed through his mind, and Jack growled to himself.

-M-

"Gracias," Mac said, handing over a couple crisp twenties, and the driver gave him a nod and accepted the cash. MacGyver slid out the passenger side, grabbing the duffel with both hands and swinging it as far up his right shoulder as he could get it. It wasn't heavy, but he didn't trust his wrists, and he'd been still for so long his shoulders had finally gotten a chance to stiffen up.

No telling how much time it'd actually been, but at least they'd given him a chance to rest.

MacGyver started off down West Avenue 25, in the opposite direction of his destination, and waited for the taxi to drive off. Jack was beside him, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, and Mac reflected that they probably didn't look that out of place, even given the hour. It was all residences, around them, and rather than cut through someone's yard and risk getting caught on a homeowner's camera, they followed the sidewalk up to Barranca. Mac pulled the hoodie a little further down his face.

"We can cut through the old ball field. Think they put a private school in a few years back," Jack murmured. "Won't have anything you can't bypass with used bubble gum and a pebble."

Mac tried not to count how many ways there actually were to circumvent security systems with that combination. Definitely more than Jack would expect. " . . . well, it would depend on the age and degradation of the gum base -"

"Dude, do you ever stop thinkin'?"

They jaywalked across the intersection, pausing to let the lone car pass. "It relaxes me."

Jack snorted, and Mac could hear the grin in it as they both recalled the last time he'd said that. They'd been in Jack's car, chasing after Cage and talking about Elwood, and Jack had intentionally said something stupid, just to wind him up. It was kinda nice, that Jack could finally follow along with his thoughts, now.

Couldn't do much about Elwood anymore, though. Unbidden, Mac was reminded of the sight of Jack sacked out in the recliner by Riley's bed, snoring away. Of course, she'd been sleeping right through it.

She couldn't hear him.

"Perk of being a goner, kiddo. I can be as many places as I need to be."

It was a sobering thought, but also a reassuring one. "I'm gonna miss you," Mac said softly, at the night air. "I should be through the worst of it in a couple days, and then . . ."

And then he'd see Jack less and less, until one morning he'd wake up and he'd be just like Riley. Jack could be snoring away beside him, and he wouldn't be able to hear him.

Jack bumped his shoulder – gently. "I'll still be here, kid. Even if you can't see me, I got your back. Always."

They came to the corner of Barranca and West Avenue 26, and sure enough, there was the ball field on the right. It had been funded by the LA Alliance, if the sign on the fence was to be believed, and there were poles for cameras but none installed. Rather than draw attention to them by cutting across the open field, Mac trudged down the alley behind the stands and dugout and the school beside it.

He took a second to wonder if school was still out for summer break. It had been early August when they'd originally been sent to escort Chevalier back, and Bozer had said he'd been a prisoner for three weeks, so even if his roomie was a little off, it was definitely time for the fall session to have started.

It didn't really matter, because he was still quite certain their destination wasn't open, regardless of the date.

The alley opened up a little, and they took the jog to the left, where the newer building gave way to old brick. He'd driven past the place a few dozen times, always feeling a little regret at the closed sign. There hadn't been one in Mission City, it was almost too small to support the tiny little YMCA the town had had, but there'd been one in the nearby city, and he'd volunteered several times to go out with the Habitat folks and make repairs.

He'd always wanted to check this one out, see what shape the building was in. Not that he could afford to run it, and right now he certainly didn't have the time, but maybe when things calmed down . . .

Mac stopped at the side door, gratefully dropped the duffel to the pavement, and fished around in the front pocket for the lockpick set. They'd passed a trash can on the way, but there was no point in scavenging when Jack wasn't truly, actually there to impress, and he had real tools in hand.

"Hey, what, now I'm just your old lady?" Jack complained, without heat, as Mac crouched stiffly at the door and inserted the tools into the padlock. He popped it easily, then angled the dental pick a bit more and broke the spring on the mechanism. The lock would still look closed, but now it could be pulled open without the key.

Security through obscurity. He'd still have to rig the door from the inside.

Mac pulled the tools loose, confirming he hadn't bent them, and then he worked on the actual door lock. It took a few seconds, but it was an older lock, not too complicated, and then he was tucking the picks back in their sleeve.

"You sure this place is empty?"

Cages on all the windows, and the locks had been intact before he'd just picked them.

"Mac . . ."

He hefted up the duffel again, ignoring his partner's warning tone. "If there's anyone in there, Jack, they're asleep."

"Yeah, or high as a kite. You're in no condition for a fist fight, dude. We talked about this."

The door opened with a painful screech, which was music to Mac's ears. A little TLC and he could easily make those hinges twice as loud, and almost frozen stiff. Should be enough of a warning system. And it should have alerted anyone in there that they were about to get company.

Besides, he couldn't really say he was any better than a junkie himself at the moment.

It was very dark, and Mac didn't bother with the lightswitch – utilities would have been shut off long ago. He pulled the tac light out of his pocket, making sure the door was closed behind him before clicking it on.

They were in a hallway off the main room, with a series of doors – probably offices - and a couple bathrooms on the left. The air was stale, but it didn't smell of urine or body odor, just a little sewer gas. The offices all had glass windows, but they were frosted with dust and age, almost opaque, and instead of clearing each of them, Mac shone the light at the floor.

There were footprints on the checkered tiles, and plenty of them. Not super fresh, but several someones had definitely been there in the past couple months.

"Mac . . ." Jack's warning tone was a little stronger than it had been before.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and continued into the main room, taking in the decaying boxing ring, overturned chairs, ancient pinball machine, and general disarray.

The footprints were all over the room, including on the boxing platform.

Probably kids.

"Hello!" he called out, pitching his voice low, and Jack gave him a look that clearly said, _is that the best you got?_

Mac gave him a half-shrug.

No one responded to him, which he hadn't really expected, and Mac spent another few minutes exploring the space until he had a good lay of the land. Three entrances, all the windows were high on the walls and too small to function as infiltration points.

He was going to have to re-establish water if he intended to use the place for longer than a day, but he was pretty sure it would be as easy as turning a valve – the school was probably on the same line. Mac had brought enough bottled water to get him through the morning, at any rate. Either way, he was too exhausted to worry about it tonight.

"Mac, I know you're tired, man, but you gotta at least lock up that side door."

He sighed, knowing Jack was right, and Mac picked one of the offices to be his bedroom for the night, and looked up and down the hall for something to secure the door with.

In the end, he used an old computer power cord, looping it around a few coat hooks mounted in a study plank of wood that had been screwed into the concrete to within an inch of its life. Mac's bandaged wrists were still just thin enough to let him replace the broken padlock from the inside of the door, and then he pulled it shut, and the only sign that the Boys and Girls' Club was inhabited was a little bit of shine on the lock, where the tools had scraped the grime clean.

-M-

Couldn't help myself. There are so many good throwback options for this, and I had forgotten how much the Boys and Girls' Club featured in MacGyver until I mainlined the original about a year ago. More exciting – it actually exists. There is a Boys and Girls Club in Los Angeles, on Pasadena.

At any rate, this one now has a still pretty drugged Mac in it, who is very, very well hidden away. Given the last episode (no spoilers), I'm a little afraid I've been giving Jack more credit than the actual writers are. So I decided that while on missions, he'd keep his shit together, and once he got home and let his guard down – key phrase there – if something else hit the fan, he would lose it. Hopefully you guys agree.


	20. Chapter 20

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

"Give me good news."

Liz fell in step with her as she left her office, showing her a six-grid section of the city. "This is where we found Bruce's Camry. Nothing in it, and no CCTV traffic cams for blocks in any direction. Hundreds of Ubers, Lyfts, and taxis were called to the area within the hour of his projected arrival, and we're sifting through those results now. We're also checking ATM cameras and local businesses hoping to get lucky, but . . . it's a well-known dark zone."

Get lucky. Not the best turn of phrase, considering Mac had ditched the car in a red light district. She supposed she should be impressed their resident cub scout actually knew where and what one was. She'd certainly give him points for creativity.

No one was going to have noticed a guy in jeans and a hoodie at two in the morning in that part of town. Their odds of finding an eye witness, or figuring out exactly how he left, were pretty low.

Matty frowned. "He waved down an older taxi, without a passenger cam, running off the clock, and he paid cash." There would be absolutely zero record of the pickup or dropoff.

Liz nodded. "The other agents thought the same."

His next stop would depend on how far he thought he needed to run. He'd either jack another car and leave the city proper, or he'd find someplace in the city to lay low and try to get a handle on things.

"I asked for good news."

The analyst toggled to another window, also a grid, laid out with faces of Turkish men who were very clearly dead. "NATO's working on identification of the men killed on the raid of Colonel Aydin's manor. We're cross checking with the Turkish military to confirm whether the colonel's _Bordo Bereliler_ were all captured or killed."

Matty looked at the tablet, and then back at the analyst. Not only were they coming in younger and younger, but they had a seriously maladjusted concept of 'good.'

"They've already confirmed that Lieutenant Kenan Yavuz was killed during the attack."

Matty recalibrated her opinion of Liz slightly as they entered the Tactical Operations Center. Not much had changed in the past six hours. Just more sunlight, and more people. The agent teams that had been initially dispatched to track down the car had come back in once it had been found. She still had some people staged throughout the city, so they could rapidly respond to intelligence, but the hunt was shifting to the analysts and their ability to parse through data.

Jack had picked his usual place, which was near the back of the room, on the left which also put the rear exit within easy reach. It was strange; he preferred to be as close to the wall of screens in her office as possible, but throw him in the TOC and he turned into a wallflower. It had been the same at the Company. Probably a habit from his military days.

His team – what was left of it – was with him. Riley was technically still under Medical's jurisdiction but she'd need to be debriefed like every other agent, and she wasn't letting the sling slow her down much. At least she'd gotten a little sleep last night. Bozer, on the other hand, looked like he was taking a nap right then and there, only with his eyes open. He was slumped in a chair, wrapped around a mug of coffee, staring almost blankly at the main screens.

Matty smoothed her frown and left Liz with the other analysts, acknowledging various greetings from others until she reached the back of the room.

"Bozer."

His eyes shifted from the screen, and she could see that he was just as happy with her as he'd been yesterday afternoon.

Hindsight being twenty-twenty, she knew they'd both prefer that situation to this one.

"Finish that coffee, and for god's sake go find some Visine. You're up next."

He all but rolled his eyes, and then resentfully gathered himself to stand. Wilt jerked his chin toward the front of the room as he did so. "Make sure someone doesn't shoot him while I'm gone?"

Matty followed his gaze, to where Mac's Phoenix profile headshot was smiling at them from the board. It had his current stats and last known position, and beneath that, in bold red letters, his offensive capabilities.

*** ARMED ***

"Can't make any promises," Jack replied, not even looking at her.

Only Riley seemed uncomfortable with the tone, glancing between them all without moving her head. Dr. Talbot had given her a good prognosis, despite the obvious bandaging and sling, and she'd already worked support on one op since the attack. Having her sit in here keeping an eye on Jack was nominally the same as having her in bed downstairs doing the same damn thing remotely.

At least here she was a physical obstacle for any additional Dalton outbursts. Much as Matty didn't want to use her that way, right now she'd take what she could get.

Because what she had was very little. She had an agent who had been MIA for three weeks. Who may or may not have supplied US Army intelligence that led to the infiltration and robbery of a NATO base. Who may or may not have supplied intelligence on the Phoenix Foundation that led to the discovery and subsequent attack on a safehouse, resulting in the deaths of four agents. Who may or may not have intentionally attacked the Phoenix team sent to extract him. Who may or may not be currently capable of differentiating friend from foe.

Who had _certainly_ signaled them for help, she was fairly sure she'd hammered that point home. Even if he'd clearly had to cooperate with his captors to do it.

And then he'd felt the need to leave Phoenix custody, and of all the times for Blondie to develop an affinity for guns, he picked now. She'd gotten his psyche eval maybe twenty minutes before it had been sent to Oversight. It didn't tell her anything she didn't know.

And it wouldn't matter that his record, to this point, bordered walking on water. If _anything_ happened before they either recovered him, or he sobered up enough to come in on his own, this would be taken out of her hands.

Mac would be taken out of her hands. And there wouldn't be a damn thing she could do about it.

Bozer's debrief would likely be very defensive, which he would think was supportive, but would do more harm than good. What Oversight needed were facts. Not a friend's opinion. Not a colleague's assessment. Mac hadn't said anything on the plane, Bozer hadn't been part of the tac team that recovered him. After the conversation she'd had with Mac yesterday, he'd apparently behaved exactly the way everyone had expected him to. She didn't need Bozer to tell her; the conversations were recorded for all to see.

Wilt had been heavily involved in tracking down the financing and pinning it to Doukas, which justified their presence in Greece, and would be useful. But as far as defending Mac . . . all he could say was they already knew; that Mac had seemed reserved but lucid.

And that fed the narrative for a double agent just as well as it did for a traumatized twenty-something who was just trying to stay alive. She could give Mac the benefit of the doubt all day long, but in the end, Oversight would make the call. And it was going to be damn difficult to do that without MacGyver's side of all this.

-M-

Mac jerked himself awake.

For a long moment, he had no idea where he was. There was a dim light coming from a series of dirty windows above him, and he was curled up next to something large and cold. The air was stale, and smelled of dust.

Beside him, Bozer's eyes were wide and stark white against the darkness. As soon as he saw Mac looking at him, he held his finger to his lips urgently.

Mac blinked, shifting onto his back to listen. His shoulders and abdomen were stiff and painful, torn muscles making themselves known, but even over the aching, he thought he heard a whisper of something.

A light footstep, grinding dust into tile.

MacGyver froze, sure that his eyes were as wide now as Bozer's. There was another set of footsteps, much closer, _in the room with him_ , but then Jack crept into view around a desk, holding a hand up, palm out.

He tucked in his thumb, signaling four.

Four men.

A tac team.

Mac rolled quietly onto his other side, to the duffel he'd put at his back. There was plenty of good stuff in there – matches, a couple smoke grenades, a flare, mace . . .

He ignored the look Jack was giving him, eyeballing the glass windows instead. The walls of the office didn't actually go all the way up to the ceiling of the warehouse turned Boys and Girls' Club. He could toss the smoke grenades over, and the dim morning light would make a nice fog. It would give him cover to get to –

To nothing. The side door was too loud, and it would take him too long to get it open. Given the echoes, it sounded like the team had entered from the main room.

He didn't have enough smoke to sufficiently fill that volume of space. He could probably get the can of mace to explode, but it would be no more than an irritant at that concentration, no worse than dicing up onions.

If he got them in the office, at least, the mace would be effective. He might be able to lure in two, but after that the jig would be up. Leaving the other two to shoot out the glass and spot him.

And there was no way they weren't going to clear the offices as soon as they secured the main space.

Mac glanced at the desk, running the odds that it wouldn't be looked under. He'd been careful when he'd entered to leave as few footprints in the dust as possible, and not to disturb anything on the desk or the credenza. It would look like no one had been in it for a while, but then again, it wasn't likely these men had just stumbled into the warehouse on a whim.

If it even _was_ a Boys and Girls' Club. For all he knew, it was just a warehouse, somewhere in Turkey, and he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

Bozer frowned at him, and Mac sent him a slightly apologetic look.

If he really was still somewhere in the Middle East, they really could just be going door to door, searching. And in that case, hiding was his best option.

Jack gave him a disapproving glare, and Mac shook his head, once.

_We both agreed that's a last resort, Jack._

Jack's eyes widened, and he stared at the duffel pointedly. _What the hell do you think this is?!_

MacGyver pushed himself gingerly to his knees, as a narrow beam of light played across the glass. More footsteps were echoing, now, they were getting closer. Moving around the boxing ring. Mac picked up the duffel by its ends, lifting it just off the ground and edging back into the recess of the desk, where legs and a chair should have gone. The back and drawers of the desk didn't reach the floor, all they'd have to do was duck down to see that something was under there, so he put the charcoal duffel against the back wall of the desk, and crouched on the other side of it.

Hopefully they'd see nothing but a shadow and assume it was an old gym bag.

"Mac!" Jack hissed under his breath, gesturing at the bag, and again, Mac shook his head.

Maybe Jack could take down a four man tactical team with a handgun and fifteen bullets, but Mac was pretty sure that was beyond his skill at this point, even if he wanted to.

The footsteps were getting closer, and faster. More confident. They'd cleared the main room.

A shadow passed across the glass, and Mac ducked as far under the desk as he could get. Across from him, Bozer was huddled up beside a black file cabinet, watching the windows. Mac used Boze's gaze and his own ears to track the men's progress down the hall.

There was a loud bang as one of the office doors slammed against the interior wall. More footsteps, quicker now. Entering the office and clearing it.

Mac tucked his head down, trying to hide his face with his hair. It wasn't that much darker than his skin, and besides, they clearly had tac lights. He could see them tracing along the glass.

Jack moved silently across the room, poking up his head to peer into the next office, and he grimaced.

Another door banged open, this time further down the hall. One of the bathrooms. They were clearing the rooms from the outside in.

There was nowhere to go.

Mac wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, and his breath sounded loud to his ears, too quick. Panicked.

They were going to find him.

Best case scenario, maybe light the flare, the light would blind them and he could break the glass and jump into the next room, there was enough detritus between the chairs, the old furniture, the boxing ring, he could try to move from cover to cover until he made it to the front entrances, and then –

Another door banged open, closer, and Mac flinched at the sound. The footsteps were constant, now, it sounded like more than the four Jack had counted, more had come in –

And only one door left.

Jack gave him a rare serious look. _They catch you, you're as good as dead._

But maybe it wasn't Aydin's men. If this really was LA, and he really had left the Phoenix, this could be one of their teams. Their agents, trying to find him.

. . . but if they were Phoenix agents, wouldn't they have called out? Identified themselves?

A flashlight beam cut across the glass from the other room, and Mac squeezed his eyes shut and took as deep a breath as he could without coughing. He was in no condition for hand to hand combat, in close quarters, against trained soldiers. His fingers fumbled with the side pockets of the duffel, looking for something, _anything_ he could pull and use –

There was a harsh, high-pitched electronic tone. It lasted a few seconds, and then cut off.

And just like that, the footsteps began to retreat.

Mac froze, hardly daring to breathe, and listened. As a single unit, they withdrew, back the way they had come. Out into the main room, until their footsteps were just a whisper. Somewhere, a door creaked opened, then closed with a solid thud.

He glanced at Bozer, who was probably wearing a mirror of his expression, and listened to the ringing silence.

What in the hell . . . ?

He didn't dare leave the underside of the desk, watching the glass for any flicker of light, trying to get his breathing under control. He was shaking, from adrenaline and cold, he hadn't realized how chilly the floor was. He was too used to waking up cold, the hoodie had helped but not enough. He'd been afraid to sleep with it over his head, afraid he wouldn't hear –

The electronic tone sounded again. It lasted for three seconds, then cut off abruptly.

Like an alarm.

. . . or a bell.

Mac closed his eyes, and let his head fall forward until his forehead bonked the inside of the desk.

School. They'd passed a school on their way in. Bells weren't mechanical anymore. Now the school systems used tones over the PA. The footsteps were the kids, moving around the block and the alleyways to get to class.

_Oh god._

Someone walked around to his side of the desk. He heard Jack sigh, and then his partner's right knee popped as he crouched down beside him.

Mac didn't open his eyes.

"Okay, bud, just take it easy-"

"Take it easy?!" The words choked him, and he coughed. "Jack, I almost chucked a smoke grenade at a kid!"

"Hey. You didn't know –"

Now Bozer was getting in on it too. Mac shook his head, feeling a few strands of hair grinding into the wood.

". . . I can't stay here."

The desk felt solid. As real as the dusty tile under his knees. As real as the warmth of the body next to him. As real as the slight brush of air as Jack sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand.

Some of it was real. Probably. And some of it was not.

And he couldn't tell the fucking difference.

Mac slumped to the side, leaning against the duffel bag, and just tried to breathe.

He couldn't tell the difference.

The odds of it being real were so, so slim. He'd lost track of the days, but maybe Boze was right. It had been weeks. Maybe longer. With nothing. No way to signal the Phoenix. No way to call for help. No way to escape. Not after the first few days.

"Dude, we've been over this."

Mac swallowed some moisture back into his throat. "Jack . . . you were there. You saw."

They just left him there. His shadow had warned him what would happen if he was caught in a lie, and he'd given them more than one. And true to his word, his shadow had strung him up and left him there. It was the first time he could remember that he had lost consciousness and come back around to find himself in the same position, with no one in the room.

His shadow hadn't been there. Not even a guard. No questions to answer, even though they knew, they _knew_ that he would have talked. His wrists felt cracked, he wouldn't be surprised if they finally were. He didn't dare remove the bandages to see.

And when they'd finally come and cut him down, it had been dark. If the sun was to be believed, they'd left him there all day. That wasn't interrogation. That was punishment, plain and simple.

And he'd barely fallen asleep - or at least, it had felt like he'd barely fallen asleep. Only to have the medic come in, not to treat him, but to kill him.

And then all hell had broken loose. Someone had shot and killed the medic at the literal last second, and blown the shit out of that building. Then, there'd been a firefight that he'd dashed blindly through, yet somehow hadn't gotten shot. He'd ended up in a room with the colonel, of all people, had him at his mercy, then –

Beside him, Jack sighed. "Yeah, dude. I saw."

Saw Jack.

It sounded like him. Used humor. Showed a blatant disregard for local culture. Said all the right things. Called him by his name.

But he was just . . . wrong. The way he moved. The way he let his rifle barrel dip, just slightly. The rhythm of his stride. It just wasn't quite right.

Like the dreams. Where Jack was just . . . off.

And like in the dreams, Jack turned on him. And like the dreams, he woke up with a blinding headache. He still had it, now that he thought about it, throbbing to his pulse. More than the concussion.

And just like that, he opened his eyes and he was in Medical. In LA. Matty was even there.

But of course, they knew about Matty. They knew about the Phoenix, because he'd told them. Medical restraints were standard operating procedure. Of course they'd give him antibiotics. Painkillers. Food. Of course they'd make it feel like –

Like they'd found him. Like they'd gotten him out.

So that he'd talk. He'd talk to Matty, tell her what happened. Ask about Riley. Ask about Bozer. Tell them about the op, tell them about the nurses, and the doctors, and the staff that would come and see him. Walk him through a debrief.

There was no way that the worst day would be followed by the best one. There was no way they'd figured out how to make him talk, and that was when the Phoenix finally found him.

There was no way that Jack Dalton had come to save his ass.

There was no way that Jack was crouched beside him now. Or Bozer was leaning guiltily against that file cabinet.

There was no way he was in LA. It just couldn't be.

But it was definitely possible that he was actually in a warehouse. Even a warehouse near a school. He was reasonably sure that he had truly pulled a catheter out of the vein in his right elbow. Truly shocked the crap out of his already numbed fingers shorting electromagnets. Truly driven a car.

Maybe they had followed him, maybe not, but all of this felt far too real – and uncomfortable – to be completely hallucinated.

Believing it was LA, believing that the Phoenix had finally gotten him out, even if he'd hallucinated Jack being there . . . that was a risk he just couldn't take. Wouldn't take.

If he could just stay off the radar for a few days. Give his body a chance to metabolize whatever drugs were already in his system. Once he stopped seeing Jack, stopped seeing Boze, maybe then he could start to trust his eyes.

"Okay, bud." Jack put a gentle hand on his shoulder, not pressing too hard. "Okay. We'll find someplace further away from civilians. But not right now. Sun's just come up, you'd be way too obvious on the street. We'll camp here for the day, rest up, and wait for dark."

Mac nodded wearily.

"If you expect to be in any shape to do that, you need to get something into that empty belly of yours. Painkillers too."

If he could trust that what he'd scavenged was actually what it looked like. For all he knew, he was mistaking Tylenol for rat poison.

"Even I know that one, Mac." Boze sounded a little more hopeful, now that Jack had mentioned food. "Rat poison tastes sweet. Tylenol, not so much."

Jack's hand slipped from his shoulder as the man apparently turned to give Bozer a look. He heard Wilt shrug.

"Dude, what? We had rats at the Grind House. Mr. Lind used to have us put down rat poison after hours. I always hadda be sure we got it back up before we opened. If not, little kids could find it and eat it. Did you know ten thousand toddlers are poisoned that way every year?"

"Well yes I did," Jack drawled. "Cause we're all livin' in one big happy brain."

-M-

Riley glanced up when someone set a steaming paper cup on the desk – on her left side.

"Hey." She glanced at the clock on the system tray. "That was fast." It was only a little over three hours, which was a record as far as the agent debriefs had been going.

"Yeah." Bozer didn't sound happy about it, and he took the seat on her right as she picked up the coffee and gratefully took a sip.

"What'd I miss?"

She swallowed the hot liquid, then pointed one desk up. "Not much. Kevin and Allison are going over the safehouse inventory, confirming the list of what Mac took. Jack's . . . being Jack somewhere else. No idea."

Wilt snorted, staring at the wall of monitors unhappily. She followed his gaze to the giant image of Mac, still smiling, like everything was cool.

But it really wasn't.

She'd gone over the footage herself; no sense being the only one in the dark, on top of the only one who'd actually gotten to sleep last night. And she hadn't seen any signs either. Mac had sounded . . . like Mac. Logical. Careful. Feeling them out, making sure he knew what was going on. Whatever it was he'd said to the nurse to get her to let him out of the restraints had been too soft for the room mics to pick up, but other than that –

It looked like he'd just suddenly decided he didn't want to be there anymore, and he'd taken off.

But where the hell would he go?

All the haunts they could think of had already been checked. Cash motels within fifty miles of where they figured he'd caught a taxi. Hostels. AirBnBs that had been registered from public computers. Even shelters. They'd followed up on every car reported stolen since he'd left. He'd taken $600 cash from the safehouse, enough to last him a little while, and a lot of medical supplies.

And weapons. Mostly defensive. Smoke grenades, mace. A toolkit. A lockpick kit. Rehydration powders, painkillers and antibiotics. Protein bars. An emergency blanket. A flare.

She wished he'd light it up, so someone could find him like they'd found Jack. LA wasn't the safest city in the world, but it had to be safer than whatever had made him make a break for it.

"Maybe someone dragged him off and knocked him out." It took Riley a second to remember that Bozer was still talking about Jack.

"Don't count on it," an accented voice quipped, and Alejandro settled himself into the seat that Jack had vacated.

Riley used the swivel chair to turn towards him. "Anything?"

The Hispanic agent shook his head. "He has everything he needs but water, and while we are in a desert, it will not be hard for him to find."

If they'd already eliminated all the easy places to get a bed, maybe it was time to expand their horizons. Sometimes people paid cash for hotels, after all. He'd burn through the money a lot faster, but he'd also get more privacy.

And it wasn't like he couldn't knock over an ATM if he felt like it. Or simply let himself into an empty hotel room.

. . . like a hotel under construction. Like anything under construction, actually, so long as water had already been connected.

Riley toggled over to her search window and started expanding the parameters.

"Yo, Zee. You're in my seat."

The other agent turned so that he was looking behind her – presumably at Jack. "Yes. Her beauty made my knees weak. By the grace of God there was an empty chair here to catch me."

". . . why do you call him Zee?" Bozer asked curiously.

Riley stopped typing momentarily, turning her chair as well. Jack looked almost exactly like he had when he'd left, although she suspected he'd probably taken a shower, because his face looked slightly less crusty. The sunray wrinkles around his eyes were still unusually prominent, and she knew it meant he was tired, and looking at the world through a squint.

"Everyone calls him Zee," he grunted, and stepped forward to lean on the desk. He nearly knocked her coffee over, but rescued it at the last second, and downed half of it in a single draught.

Then he made a face. "Ugh. What did I just drink?"

"A double soy latte with two shots of expresso," Bozer replied, without missing a beat. "Enjoy that estrogen."

Jack choked, and Zee gave a low, sultry chuckle. "I like you," he announced, and Bozer inclined his head in the first Bozer-like thing she'd seen him do since she woke up.

Him being worried, that made sense to her. Upset. Anxious. But Asshole Bozer, she had not been prepared to deal with. Clearly something had happened while she was out, something with Matty, and they weren't talking about it.

"Seriously, though," Riley pressed. "Literally everyone calls you Zee, but you introduced yourself as Alejandro. What gives?"

He raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Jack, who was studying the half empty coffee as if considering whether or not it was too poisonous to finish off. "How young are they?"

"Way the hell too young," Jack replied, and then frowned and took another pull on the coffee.

Alejandro took that in stride, turning back to them with the air of a high school professor. "Allow me to introduce myself again. I am Alejandro De los Reyes."

She stared at him. "Uh . . . yeah. You said that before."

But Bozer suddenly snapped his fingers. "I get it." She used her toes to swivel the seat, and found Bozer with a faintly triumphant look on his face.

"Alejandro de la Vega."

Riley cast her mind back to any even remotely Spanish or Mexican soap that she might have accidentally caught while in the big house.

". . . Zorro," he prodded. "Come on, didn't you watch that? Zorro's real name was Alejandro de la Vega. It aired on the Family Channel, they play reruns all the time."

Zorro. Zee. She swiveled back to Alejandro. "Well, that's not racist at all," she murmured sarcastically. "So, do you, like, fence and stuff?"

Jack coughed, and set down the empty paper cup. "Not exactly."

Riley was suddenly and uncomfortably reminded of the last time she saw a knife, and flashed the other agent a quick smile before anyone could notice. It seemed to work; the Hispanic agent merely rubbed the top of his right ear.

"I may have carved a Z or two in my day."

"And it wasn't just the Family Channel, Boze. Douglas Fairbanks did the original black and whites, then Guy Williams in the fifties. Come on, man, I thought films were your thing."

"Yeah, I saw the one with Antonio Banderas. It . . . wasn't exactly all that amazing."

The banter seemed to relax them all, and Riley turned back to her computer and finished entering the new parameters.

"Anything on your end?"

Riley would have shaken her head, if the bandages would have allowed it. "No. There's a lot of ground to cover." Then she hesitated. "I feel like I'm running the same algorithms we'd use to catch a terrorist. It's just . . . weird."

"Yeah," Boze agreed soberly. "Nothing about this feels right. I mean, this is Mac we're talking about, and I would swear the guys in that room were ready to send in the army."

"What guys?" Jack's voice was sharp.

Bozer's gaze dropped as he thought. "I dunno. Never seen 'em. Kinda gave me that 'two by two, hands of blue' vibe." He glanced up in time to see Jack's quizzical look. "Firefly? Come on, who's the film buff now?"

"A kill squad," Alejandro – Zee – supplied, and Jack's eyes went hard and flat.

For a second he didn't say anything, then he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was Oversight you just met, Boze. Congratulations."

She was pretty sure that was nothing to be celebrating. "Oversight? Like, calls Matty on the red phone Oversight?"

"One and the same," Zee confirmed. "They did this the last time, too."

Bozer blinked. "Last time?"

Zee nodded, though Jack didn't move, or open his eyes. "Yes. This is not the first time we've used these tools to find a friend."

"Craig. I'd forgotten about that."

Riley and Bozer exchanged a look. She'd never met anyone named Craig, at least not in this building. "So . . . what happened?"

Zee made a show of thinking. "Well, if memory serves, he had been hit with a dart poisoned with venom from a rare Peruvian tree frog. I think we finally found him standing at the top of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. I don't recall how we explained that one to the press."

"Maintenance worker safety harness failure," Jack supplied, taking a deep breath through his nose.

Riley looked between the two of them. ". . . did he . . . jump?"

"Oh no. We got to him before then," Zee reassured her. "That was the year he retired."

Bozer said what she was already thinking. "Do you mean that literally, or figuratively?"

"He's fine, Boze. Got two grandkids now." Jack crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not happy about the topic of conversation. "It was the op that did him in, not the poison."

"And Oversight sat in on the debriefs, just as they are apparently doing now." Zee didn't seem as upset about it as Jack was. "Any time there is a chance that an agent will compromise the organization, they feel the need to lend assistance."

Bozer snorted. "Yeah, well, I didn't like the direction of their 'assistance.' Tryin' to make it out like Mac's got an ulterior motive, like he's been brainwashed or something."

Zee shrugged eloquently. "Perhaps he has."

Riley blinked at him, completely taken aback. ". . . no way. Mac knows about ten ways to hypnotize people, he'd never fall for it-"

"Okay, even I know that's a movie trope," Bozer interjected apologetically. "Real brainwashing takes a lot of drugs, and a lotta time."

She glared at Bozer. "Not helping, dude."

"They really are young, aren't they," Alejandro observed thoughtfully.

Jack was staring at some point over the back of their low cube wall. " . . . dammit," he swore softly.

Zee's face split into a grin, and he leaned back in the office chair. "I don't mean that he's been conditioned. I simply mean that he has an ulterior motive. The facts are indisputable." Riley opened her mouth to protest, but he merely held up a finger.

"He knew exactly what he was doing when he manipulated us, left the building, and hid from us." The agent gestured broadly at the room, full of activity. "That he remains hidden merely cements these facts."

Bozer crossed his arms. "You don't _really_ believe that, do you?"

Alejandro gave Bozer a keen look. "Don't you?"

But he didn't look upset about it. He was still smiling. Riley ran down what he'd laid out again. Mac was still using his brain, and his training. He wasn't crazy. Whatever he was doing made sense to him.

"What do _you_ think he's up to?"

Zee gave her an approving nod. "The same thing he's been doing since he was taken from us, I imagine."

So . . . trying to escape. But that couldn't be what Alejandro was getting at either. And clearly Jack was on the same page as Zee, because he had gone back to rubbing his eyes.

What would Mac have been doing besides trying to escape? Clearly they'd been torturing and interrogating him, so –

So he'd been trying not to tell them anything.

Riley shook her head slowly. ". . . that idiot's trying to protect us, isn't he."

Alejandro dipped his chin. "He cannot be sure he is really home." He glanced out at the room again. "And we will not find him, I think, until he is ready to be found."

Jack sighed quietly, and dropped his hand. "I hate apologizing to her," he muttered, and Zee gave him a sympathetic look.

Riley was briefly lost. "Wait . . .what?"

"Oversight." Jack glanced up at the ceiling. "I didn't think about it. Should have," he added, almost to himself.

"Wait . . . you mean Matty?" Bozer also sounded confused.

Jack's expression confirmed it. "She had to run it by the book. Didn't have a choice. Oversight was already involved before he split." He gave a half-chuckle. "Son of a bitch."

Bozer scoffed, and Riley was glad she wasn't the only one completely lost. "Okay. What the hell are you talking about, Jack? What did you do?"

The corner of his mouth turned up. "You helped," he informed her, and Riley narrowed her eyes at him.

"This op has been a cluster from day one. We got bad intel from our own State Department, we lost an agent – me, a diplomat, _and_ his family, another agent was taken, _you_ declared war on Russia, we exposed Greece's support of overthrowing the current Turkish regime, NATO had to wade in, we lost four agents . . ." He shook his head. "They've probably been up her ass for the past week. At least."

". . . and now Mac's gone, and he took off under our watch," Bozer continued. "So you think-"

"They'll take the op away," Jack finished. "If they think she mismanaged it, Oversight'll turn the manhunt and cleanup over to another agency."

Riley felt her eyebrows furrow. "What other agency? You mean like the FBI?"

Alejandro gave a hollow laugh. "No, my alma hermosa. With us being on US soil, it would be the NSA or DHS."

Neither of those agencies were known for their compassion. Matty was being so sharp with them all, not because she was angry, but because she was worried.

Riley glanced back at Jack. "What did you say to her?"

He looked ever so vaguely uncomfortable. "Nothin' she didn't deserve," he muttered defensively, and Zee gave him a knowing smirk.

"You think they'll try to railroad her?" Bozer's voice was troubled.

Jack thought about it, then shook his head. "Nah. The intel wasn't her fault. And we exposed a mole in the State Department that coulda gone hidden for years. She'll find a way to spin it."

He said it cavalierly, but he didn't quite meet their eyes.

". . . well, then I'm glad I didn't give them any more ammunition," Bozer muttered. "Guess I gotta go apologize too-"

"What do you mean, ammunition?"

Bozer glanced up at Jack. "That . . . thing we talked about," he replied, a little lamely.

Jack's eyebrows rose. "That thing?"

"Uh . . ." Bozer looked pointedly at Alejandro, who raised both his hands in mock surrender.

"I think my knees have recovered. Senorita," and he gave her a bow as he took his leave.

Bozer barely waited until Zee was out of earshot, and kept his voice low. "That they knew who I was. From Mac."

. . . when the Turk had said, 'your friend called out for you'. That's what he was talking about. Riley started to shake her head. "Boze, I told you, that's –"

"You left that _out_? On purpose?" Jack had already leaned up off the table, and Riley trailed off at his expression.

Bozer also straightened up a little, clearly surprised. ". . . yeah. I was afraid they'd use it to claim Mac was talking-"

" _Bozer_!" He bit it off, the muscles along his jaw bunching as he advanced on the younger man. "Boze, you don't _leave things out_ of a debrief! Particularly if Oversight is there!"

He barely gave Boze a chance to get up before he'd grabbed him by the arm and started hauling him down the corridor between the cubes. Wilt yelped and almost tripped trying to keep up.

"Hey! Wait, what-"

"Matty!"

Riley stood up herself, not surprised to see that Jack was making straight for Matilda, who'd just walked into the TOC, with Bozer still in hand. Their director graced Jack with a glare at his tone, then did a double take, and waved off Liz, who was also trying to get her attention. Riley didn't hear what Jack said, but she looked between the two of them, then gestured for them to follow her, and the three turned around and left the TOC.

-M-

I am hopeful that cleared up a few questions and concerns you folks voiced earlier, particularly around Mac and his headspace, if he'd been brainwashed, etc. Now that we're nearing the end of this little tale (I think maybe five chapters left?) there's just a few things I need to clean up, including the fact that the Phoenix team just ran amok all over southeastern Europe and there would be serious consequences for some of the things that happened.

Just to make sure everyone's the same page here, Matty has been under pressure from Oversight for a while now, which is why she dealt with the agents' return like she did – confining them to campus, treating Mac according to protocol, and being so aggressive trying to bring him back in. Mac can't quite bring himself to believe that he was actually rescued, so he's going to hide as best he can until he feels like he knows what's going on.

I am glad that all of you were able to follow along with my Jack and his little temper tantrum. I really like that guy! His response to Bozer this chapter will be explained a little later.


	21. Chapter 21

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **Note:** This chapter indirectly references characters from S2E07, **Duck Tape and Jack** , where the team tries to save a presidential candidate in Ecuador with heart failure, and Jack's apartment is robbed.

-M-

"Yo, high key, it is after fourth period and I need to get lit AF."

"Goals," Luse added.

Peter made a show of looking up from his History text, squinting a little in the afternoon sun. The picnic tables out behind the ball field were prime real estate, and he wasn't eager to give it up just yet. "And you lookin' at me?"

"C'mon, Hundo P. I know you good for it."

Good for it. Like either of them even bothered anymore. "JimJam with no jib? That's v sad. Do I look like your ganjapreneur?"

". . . so, speaking English. No one does that anymore, in this country?"

Luse whistled, turning to give Tina a once-over. "Savage much?"

Tina gave the crew an unimpressed look. She was the newest member of the squad, since they'd dropped T-Bird, but damn was she a prude. He'd call her a thot, but far as he knew, she hadn't made a move all semester. Didn't mean she didn't have a few guys thirsty. Much as he hated their school uniforms, she still made it look good.

Not that he was thirsty. Everybody knew Hundo P played it low key.

Peter sighed loudly, and made a big production of shoving his textbook in his bag. He intentionally slid a finger into the back cover, letting a small plastic bag slip free, and artfully caught it as the book fell into his pack.

Lucy – they just called her Luse – flashed him a quick grin. "Fire," she said appreciatively, and he gave her a wink and passed her the bag as the quartet headed towards the back alley.

"It's not savage, it's truth," Tina defended herself. "I'm tired of this shitty ass California bullshit slang. Tired AF."

Jim laughed as they rounded the corner, towards the old brick building. "Girl, you can't clap back that way."

"Whatev." She glanced down the alley, clearly confused. "What the fuck are we doing back here? We're literally in plain sight."

"It's WTF," Luse corrected, and leaned against the old brick, propping one leg seductively against the wall and making the uniform skirt look just a little less bag-like.

Tina rolled her eyes. "I'm not texting on a fucking phone."

The other girl waggled her eyebrows. "You can text me any time. LB/FB." She snapped her gum, then dropped her saddle shoe to the darkened window, just at ground level. It pushed right in, and she smirked and turned, slipping inside the old building. Her skirt caught on the edge of the window, giving them a flash of pink panties.

Peter and Jim exchanged a look. Sometimes, they weren't quite sure which way Luse tended. Maybe equal opportunity?

But Tina, there was no question. She gave them both a withering look. "Ladies first."

"See, you try to throw shade, you just suck at it."

The girl threw up her hands. "Finally! Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, was that so hard?"

"Hey, no need to get salty," Jim retorted. He followed after Luse – she had the 420, after all – and Peter gave Tina a princely gesture.

"Would you like a hand, mademoiselle?"

She gave him a suspicious look. "Seriously. You smoke pot down there."

"Seriously," he mimicked.

"And that was French, not English," she pointed out, and then she sank to the pavement – and tucked her skirt under her – before she grabbed the top of the windowsill, as Jim and Lucy had done, and eased herself past the half window into the darkness.

They'd stacked some old shit under that window ages ago to make a nice stairwell, and she figured it out pretty fast, because she disappeared inside without further comment, and Peter glanced over his shoulder, making sure the alley was still clear, before he slid in after her and pushed the window back up.

The old building was perfect. Locked up tight, except for that one cellar window, and none of the other kids had figured it out yet. T-Bird had found it when he'd been using the alley as his own personal shred sled ramp. It was way close to the school, so they could hit it free period, do whatev, pop back out, and all the chaperones in the world could canvas the alleys and street proper and never see 'em.

It took a second to adjust to the dark, and they watched Tina check out the digs. Not much to see in the cellar, just old stacked office shit. Jim went through a box now and then, but everything was twenty years old and the whole thing was waiting to get lit up one day. If it wasn't so damn useful, it might be fun to watch it burn.

T-Bird'd probably report them, now that he was oh-so-holier-than-thou with his fancy ass job.

"Creepy," Tina commented cheerfully, and walked to the end of the corridor, glancing around the corner. "Nice junkie," she added. "He come with the place?"

Jim glanced back at him, and Peter shrugged. If some loser had decided to make it his own personal bumgalow, well, they'd just have to encourage 'em to move along.

After they helped him out by taking anything good off him, of course.

Sure enough, when Peter rounded the corner, there was definitely some turnt dude there. He'd stacked a pile of boxes almost up to the ceiling, and he was lying on them with his feet in the air, tangled up in some of the pipes. He was breathing hard, his arms dangling off to the sides, and even in the dim, Peter could make out white bandages on both his wrists.

Great. Not just a hype, but a suicidal one. That had probably broken out of general, so the cops would be after him.

"Hey," he called out loudly. "Dude. WTF?"

He expected the junkie to jump a mile high, but his arms just twitched a little, and then he dropped his head and looked at them, upside down.

"Beat it," Peter growled. "You're next to a school, creeper."

The junkie continued staring at them, almost blankly. "Uh . . . be with you in a sec."

Then he picked up his head, and kept kicking the fucking ceiling pipes.

Jim glanced back at him again, and Peter gave him a more emphatic shrug. For a junkie, he sounded kinda normal, actually.

There was a faint metallic squeal, and the crackhead grabbed onto the boxes he was lying on, jamming his feet even further up into the ceiling. Something metal kept shrieking, enough to make Luse wince, and there was a faint rushing sound overhead, like someone had flushed the commode.

The junkie dropped his feet back to his makeshift platform, coughing and trying to catch his breath, and then he awkwardly rolled down the pile of boxes. Tina took a couple steps back, bumping into Luce, and Jim circled around them, getting between the girls and this jackass. Not to be outdone, Peter followed suit.

The junkie straightened up like a crotchety old man. His clothes were too big, but not nasty, and as he came towards them, finally crossing a rectangle of light, Peter could see that he was thin, just like a cokehead. Probably didn't weigh any more than he did. Shaggy blond hair. Older than them. His arms and face were bruised up, like he'd gotten into it with someone.

Clearly he'd lost. He and JimJam could take this guy no problem.

"Hey, creeper, you deaf?"

Guy looked to be no more than twenty-five, and he didn't seem even remotely afraid of them. "Deaf? No, sorry, just turning on the water." He wiped at the sweat on his face, then brushed his hands off on his jeans, coming to a stop a few feet from them. "Nice uniforms. You trespass here often?"

Luce whistled softly. "Get a sandwich in this dude, he is turnt."

The guy stared at her a second, like he wasn't sure what she'd said. But he wasn't twitchy, and he didn't smell. He was still a little out of breath, and kinda wheezy, but his voice was steady. "Uh, yeah. Anyway, nice to meet you. You should be getting back to class."

Yeah right. Peter took a step forward. "And . . . who the hell you supposed to be?"

The guy turned to him, and gave him a half smile. Still perfectly at ease, like he belonged there. Still sweating, though, and it wasn't all that hot. "I'm checking out the place for the new owner. Why? You thinking about joining?"

"Joining . . ?"

The guy gestured at the ceiling. "It's a Boys and Girls Club. You know, for troubled youth. The kind that skip class?"

For a homeless guy, he was pretty put together. Maybe he _was_ a user, he was definitely pale enough, but right now he wasn't acting drugged out of his gourd, and Peter reluctantly tapped Jim on the shoulder.

If this guy wandered up to the school office, he might be able to pass as sober. And if he was this together, he might even be able to ID them. It didn't look like there was anything fun in his pockets.

Time to go.

"Yeah, well, new owner'd need to clear out all the cockroaches before we'd set foot in this dump."

The blond man laughed outright. "Yeah, I'm sure those are the only roaches down here." He looked pointedly at Luse, who tucked the forgotten plastic baggie behind her back with a suggestive shifting of her hips.

"Dude, you're so right. This place is awesome," Tina said sarcastically. "Well, nice to meet you, Slender Man, we'll just leave you in your creepy basement to keep slitting your wrists. Better luck next time."

She took another step back, turning to head down the corridor they'd come through, and the blond guy snorted.

"Bozer's right. Stairs are that way." He thumbed over his shoulder. "Unless . . . you just really like using the window?"

"You'd really like to watch us climb out, wouldn't you?" Luse tilted her head to the side, and Peter could hear the smirk in her voice.

Flirting with the guy so he wouldn't report them. Nice.

The guy laughed again, his Adams' apple jumping in his throat. "I'd really like to continue the building inspection, actually. Come on, let's go."

He turned around, heading back towards his tower of boxes, and Peter glanced over his shoulder to find the entire squad looking at him. Peter opened his mouth, then he just closed it again. It wasn't worth getting reported, and it sure as hell wasn't worth getting the pot confiscated. "Sure, creeper. After you."

None of them followed the guy, so Peter sighed and started after him down the dark hall. They could come with or not.

It wasn't like he didn't know where the stairs were. They'd explored the whole place. The old boxing ring was kinda cool, but otherwise it was just full of junk. And it looked just like it had at the end of last semester, so whoever the 'new owner' was, they hadn't done dick. The blond guy headed for the entrance closest to the alley they'd entered from, so at least he wasn't gonna throw them out the front doors to get caught.

"So what happened to you, dude?"

The guy glanced back over his shoulder, stiffly, and Tina gestured. "Seriously."

He held up one of his wrists, glancing at it. "Car wreck," he said, after a moment. "Old Mustang, pre airbags. Not much to look at, but she still had plenty of horses."

"Suck," Luse murmured. "You ever get her fixed up, I'd love a ride."

The guy reached for the door, shaking his head, and he pressed the old release bar down, turning and using his hip to push open the door.

"Shut up, Boze," he murmured, as if to himself, and held it wide. "How about you come back when we open, huh?"

Peter snorted, shouldering past the guy back into the alley, and he heard the rest of them follow suit. He didn't look back, but eventually he heard the door pulled shut, and then Peter slowed, so that the rest of them could catch up.

Jim was the first, glaring back at the old building. "Well, that blows."

"Did you see anybody else in there?"

Jim blinked at him. ". . . no?"

The girls joined them, and Luse snapped her gum again. "Nice john."

Tina stared at her in disbelief. "Literally everything does it for you, doesn't it."

Peter waved for silence. "Did anybody see creeper two?"

Luse shook her head. "Nah. Thought he was solo."

"What's up, Hundo P?"

Peter turned to glare at the building. Dude had said it twice. "He said Bozer. Isn't that the d-bag T-Bird hooked up with when he bailed on us?"

"Bozer is a name?" Tina sounded surprised. "Shit, I thought that was more California bullshit. And who the hell is T-Bird?"

"Tommy," Peter said impatiently, turning to Jim. "You think he's got that kinda dough?"

Jim stuffed his hands into his khakis, glancing back at the old Boys and Girls' Club. "It's sus. But hey, if T-Bird is still fam, maybe we can get the hookup."

"Yeah. And he owes me a burger," Peter grumbled. If it was the same do-gooder that had scored Tommy the burger gig, it made sense he'd give that skinny-ass crackhead a second chance by hiring him to clean the place up. They'd need to make sure Tommy hadn't forgotten what he'd promised. If T-Bird had told his new bestie to buy that building just to fuck with them . . . he was gonna eat more than a burger.

"Yay! Grind House ftw," Luse chirped.

Tina just looked between them all. "So . . . you guys know Slender Man's boss?"

-M-

Matty's eyes flicked between the two of them, studying them carefully. "That's it?"

Jack nodded. "That's it. Sarah took the shot right after. And it was a damn good thing, too," he added with a growl, glaring at Bozer. "Because this idiot took the bait."

Wilt had gone from scared to sorry to angry to sorry again in the span of only a few minutes, so it was no surprise that he was clearly headed back towards angry. This time he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Matty, on the other hand, was wearing the same consistent disappointed she'd had on since last night. "Yes, well, this idiot hasn't been trained. I guess we need to do something about that."

Jack distantly hoped she meant the academy, as opposed to one on one. "Can you get the omission into the written report?"

She gave him an unhappy smirk. "Of course I can, Jack, I have a magic wand in here, didn't I tell you?" She stomped off to her desk, swiping a tablet off the surface and tapping the screen with enough force to chip one of her nails. "I delayed your debrief, but only until tomorrow morning. You need to get some sleep between then and now."

He grunted. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Her finger paused on the slick surface of the tablet. "You were, Jack, and I'm still processing the paperwork. If you're going to do that again, do me a favor and stay that way."

"Hey." Bozer's tone was surprisingly forceful, enough to make Jack actually look at him. His jaw was jutted out a little, but his expression was more disapproving than angry. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you two, but you need to get over it."

Matty stared at him, fingers still on the tablet, and she raised her eyebrows. Bozer wisely didn't give her a chance to use her words.

"Jack, I get why you're pissed off. You're worried about Mac. But if we're right, and he's just hidin' out because he's afraid of spilling his guts to the bad guys, then he's probably in better shape right now than you are. If the rest of us have to stick to the playbook, then so do you."

He rounded on Matty. "And I get that I probably _don't_ get what's eatin' you, but I do know that you're not gonna get through it by yourself. Those guys in there are lookin' for someone to throw under the bus, and if they can't get Mac, they'll go for the next best thing. You need to stop pushing people away and let us help. Maybe if you _told me_ how to do that, I wouldn't be making such a hash out of it."

Her lips parted, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but then Matty hesitated.

"Bozer . . ." she started, and then paused again. "The old director brought you in because Murdoc blew Mac's cover, and she didn't have a choice. You didn't train for this. And I don't mean it like that." She held up a hand, forestalling him. "I mean you didn't go through the normal selection process. This job just sort of happened to you. And you know what happened to the last director."

Jack opened his mouth, and Matty just shot him a look. He closed it again.

"By lying in your debrief, even to protect Mac, all you did was demonstrate that they had even more reason to doubt you. And to doubt my management of you."

Bozer's eyebrows knit together. "Wait . . . no, that's not-"

"What you meant. I know." All the disappointment had melted off her face, making her look just as haggard and exhausted as the rest of them. "You're not wrong. They're looking for someone to blame. But that's not gonna be you. If it's not Mac, it'll most likely be Cage."

Jack had come to the same conclusion.

Bozer hadn't lost the confused look. "But it wasn't her fault-"

"Really? Because it was someone's fault." She set the forgotten tablet back on the desk. "Samantha told me, repeatedly, that remaining in that safehouse was a risk. I knew it. I made an informed decision to leave you all there, because we couldn't funnel any more resources to the op without drawing more attention than we already had. As a result of my decision, four men died."

But Bozer was shaking his head. "Naw. That's on the colonel."

She smiled humorlessly. "The buck stops here, Bozer. Right where it should. I'm not going to let them chew up Samantha any more than I'd throw you or even him to the wolves." She indicated Jack. "The more heavy-handed I am with you, _all_ of you, the better off you'll be."

"But . . . Matty . . ." Bozer took a step forward. "Then who's got _your_ back?"

"My back's good, Bozer. Small target." She took the bite out of her words with something that was actually like a real smile. "I've got the cards I need. If you really want to help me, get Baby Einstein back here before he gets himself into any more trouble."

Bozer looked unconvinced, but he nodded, and Jack sighed and rolled his head on his shoulders.

The second Zee had reminded him about Craig, all the pieces had slipped into place. The one eighty she'd pulled when the plane touched down. How she'd looked when she came down to Medical. He'd even asked how Oversight was taking it, he figured there would be an investigation after the safehouse was attacked, but . . .

"I didn't realize Oversight was this involved." Jack looked her right in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Matty. I should've."

"Damn right you should've," she snapped, retrieving the tablet. "He doesn't know any better, but you do."

Jack made a quiet noise of agreement. He kinda deserved that.

"Now get out of my office. Take a damn nap. And for god's sake, when you figure out where Mac is, make sure we actually retrieve him."

Jack gave her a nod, and she put all her attention on the tablet, effectively dismissing them.

He walked back to the door, holding it open for Bozer, and the two headed down the hall. Matty's office glass stayed frosted.

Bozer sighed. "Well, now what?"

That was the one question they had an answer to. "You heard her. We go get Mac."

Jack sidestepped a pair of analysts in the corridor, pressing his right arm into his gut as the move forced him to twist at the waist. The nap didn't sound half bad either. But he had a stop to make first.

" . . . uh, yeah. Because we totally haven't been trying to do that all day." The frustration in his voice was obvious.

"You weren't listening, Boze." Jack reached into his pocket, fishing around for the pill bottle. " _We_ go get Mac."

Riles was confined to campus until they debriefed her, and so was he, but Bozer was off the hook. Saito had been up first, and probably Tunne right after him, and no one would think it strange for either of them to bail and take eight to sleep and shower.

"Go find out if Riley's got a time for her debrief yet, wouldja?"

The kid gave him a very strange look, but moved to do so, and Jack peeled off at the kitchenette for a coffee – a real one – to wash down the pills. By the time he made it back into the TOC, Bozer had apparently filled in Riley, because they both looked up at him expectantly as he walked back into the cube.

"It's in like an hour," she supplied, before he could say a word. "Am I really supposed to tell them . . . you know. Everything?"

Jack leaned down, bracing his hands on the armrests of her chair to ensure that he had her full and undivided attention. "Every last damn detail, whatever they ask. You do _not_ want to give them a reason, you hear me?"

Her expression was doubtful. ". . . I kinda went a little further with that cyberattack than I'd actually gotten permission for . . ."

Jack tried not to think about it. "They already know, trust me."

What they also already knew was that she'd taken a couple hits – hard hits – protecting the main Phoenix network. They'd give her static, and they'd make her feel like garbage, but Oversight had much bigger fish in their sights. She'd be fine.

Matty, on the other hand, was a damn liar. There was no way she had enough cards when it was Oversight stacking the deck.

At least not yet she didn't.

Riley gave him a constricted nod, still a little uncomfortable with his proximity, and he leaned in ever so slightly further, ignoring the way it pulled on his stomach. To anyone watching, he was quietly reading her the riot act. His voice was very soft. "Before you go up there, can you do me a favor?"

She stared at him. ". . . sure . . .?"

He flashed her a reassuring grin. "Get me, Boze, Saito, and John on coms. Private channel. Encrypted."

He watched her eyes shift for a second as she decided what that meant.

"Also . . . can you install some kinda secure texting app on our phones?"

Her eyebrows quirked. "So . . . the debrief where I have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth only covers what happened _before_ today?"

_That's my girl._

"Yep."

-M-

Something on his temple was tickling him.

Mac twitched his head, and whatever it was fell with a soft pat onto his shoulder. It rolled down the front of his shirt as expected, but then defied the forces of gravity as well as the laws of physics and scurried across his stomach.

Mac jolted himself more awake, brushing the thing off him, and the cockroach landed on its back a few feet away. It rightened itself expertly – not its first time being flung across a room, apparently – and shot under an ancient cardboard box.

He glared in its general direction for a moment, but the pain in his wrist and his head distracted him from any real retaliation. He'd fallen asleep in the old office chair, hadn't meant to but the low grade headache was exhausting –

There was still plenty of light. He hadn't been asleep long.

Mac closed his eyes again, contemplating another short nap. His stomach gurgled loudly into the silence.

". . . time to eat."

"Mmm," Mac agreed noncommittally. He knew when he'd taken them that he'd have to work his way up to the protein bars, otherwise they'd just make him sick. His plan up to this point had been sticking with the low sugar rehydration powders, shaken up in bottled water, and eating a handful of crackers every half hour or so, as well as with the meds.

But clearly the crackers weren't cutting it, because the antibiotics and anti-inflammatories were really doing a number on his stomach lining. He'd used antibiotic-triggered diarrhea as his excuse to get out of restraints earlier, but the sad fact was that it really _was_ par for the course and sanitation was one of the reasons he'd turned the water on.

"You're not careful, dude, you'll get dehydrated."

"Mmm-hmm." If his calculations were correct – and there was really no way to know for sure – he'd gotten at least three liters of 0.9% sodium chloride solution in the last twenty-four hours, which was plenty of salt and potassium. It'd be uncomfortable for a few days, but he was in no real danger from dehydration or hyponatremia.

". . . you think I don't know what those fancy-ass words mean."

"Mmm-hmm." He felt his lips curl up slightly in a smile as Jack snorted, somewhere off to his right.

His stomach whined again, and Mac's eyes drifted open of their own accord as it occurred to him that he didn't have a watch, and his estimation of time was probably not terribly accurate at the moment.

"Mmm-hmm," Jack mocked him, and Mac let his head roll to the right to look at him.

The office didn't look much better in the light of day than it had last night. This was clearly the business office, with multiple steel file cabinets, the large desk, and piles and piles of boxes. Whatever happened to close the club, apparently it had happened over the course of months, and someone had always intended to return to it.

Someone had to be paying property tax on the place.

Was there property tax in Turkey?

The chairs on the other side of the desk were empty, no sign of Jack, and Mac picked up his head a little, surprised.

". . . you there?"

Above him, the roof pinged as it heated in the late afternoon sun.

Mac carefully and reluctantly leaned the chair up from its comfortable recline, aware of every bruise and contusion along the way. He was taking the bare minimum on the meds, he knew he'd pay for that eventually but it was surprising how quickly his body was stiffening up.

Without his daily calisthenics and new injuries to add to the old ones, it was remarkable how painful just sitting still could be.

He climbed to his feet, not putting much weight on his hands as he did so, and took a few steps before he could completely straighten up. He used the same footprints he'd made when he entered, following them out into the hallway where it didn't matter quite so much. The door to the utility closet was open, and he ducked his head in, not surprised to see that the makeshift camping stove he'd tucked under the water heater was down to a small, barely visible blue flame.

The water heater was electric, and he hadn't been willing to climb around on the outside of the building and dangle twenty feet above pavement with his hands and wrists like they were. Luckily the volume of the water heater was printed on the inside of the access panel, and a little quick math and some twenty year old naphtha had told him how much heat he could create, and how much the tank could take before it blew.

Then he'd halved that amount, and set up the little stove. He didn't need super hot water. All he really wanted was enough hot to help him cough up some of the crap in his lungs, and he'd be perfectly happy with the remainder going towards a lukewarm shower.

He would be perfectly happy with _any_ kind of shower.

Mac glanced down at his wrists, eyeing the bandages. He could try to wrap his hands in plastic bags to keep them dry, but it would be much harder to clean his hair, which was the part of him that felt the filthiest. He didn't currently smell nearly as bad as he remembered, but a spongebath he couldn't recall didn't take the place of just –

Just being clean. He just wanted to get clean.

Mac left the stove to burn itself out, returning to the office and raiding the duffel for another package of crackers. He still had a quarter liter of rehydration solution – he was thinking of it as red flavored, because he couldn't tell what they'd actually been shooting for – and he took some acetaminophen, naproxen, and steroids.

He gave the Tylenol a good twenty minutes to kick in before he retreated back to the corridor, checking all the exits. Everything looked exactly like it had the last time he checked it, and Mac stared at the fresh footsteps in the main room, looping the boxing ring. Wondering if they were real.

Had there really been kids . . . ? He remembered thinking up a story to tell anyone who just stumbled in, that he was inspecting it for the new owner, but -

Had that actually happened? Or had he simply rehearsed it in his head?

Behind him, Bozer snorted. "The first girl who flirts with you in a month, and you don't think she was real?"

Mac followed the footprints with his eyes, looping around the corner of the old boxing platform. He imagined the interior structure. Good place to hide, but almost useless if anyone started shooting -

"I know what you're doing, man," Boze chided him. "You're tryin' not to think about the fact they were speakin' English."

Mac shook his head quietly. "I don't think they were, Boze." Certainly not that one girl –

But that wasn't true. It was English. It was just high school student English. And his own high school student was way too much like he'd been at her age, she spoke Science. So it was no surprise the kids had a whole new slang for a whole new generation.

If the kids had been real, they'd been speaking English. Because if the kids were real and they'd been speaking Turkish, he would be in custody by now.

"And how the hell am I supposed to trust that those kids were real, when _you're_ the one trying to convince me of it?"

Bozer didn't respond, and Mac didn't dare turn around. He just headed back to the office for his duffel.

He grabbed a clean shirt and the bar of soap, and then checked the side door one more time before he walked into the girls' locker room. Not his first choice, but it was on the outside wall, which meant it had windows. They were all closed, and cloudy with filth, so hopefully no one would hear the water or see any steam.

The men's locker room, which was on the other side of the wall, had no windows to the outside. And there was no way in hell he was going to take a shower in the dark.

Mac selected the same shower he'd let run earlier, when he was trying to get all the air out and flush the pipes with fresh water. He'd easily put two hundred gallons through the plumbing before he'd trusted the water enough to drink it, and outside of the usual flavor of chlorine and fluoride, it tasted pretty much like city tap water. He hadn't seen any water purification tablets in any of the kits he'd run across, so he was drinking it straight and hoping for the best.

After all, if he was still in Turkey, he'd had three weeks to get used to the water.

Mac ducked out of the path of the old showerhead, turning the knob for hot water, and was rewarded with the half-spray, half-drip of clogged showerheads the world over. The water heater was on the other side of the mens' locker room, so it didn't take long for it to start to heat up, and Mac went back to the door and set the deadbolt before he pulled his sweaty tee off and used it to wipe down the dusty bench. Once it was clean – ish - he sat and pulled off his sneakers. The clean tee was set down , then his jeans and belt, and Mac padded across the filthy floor to where steam was indeed starting to rise.

Motion caught his eye, to his right, and Mac stared at the long mirror, stretched the length of the line of sinks.

It was as dirty as everything else in the bathroom, speckled with age and corrosion, and Mac stepped closer, staring at his reflection.

That was his reflection.

He touched his face, watching the man in the mirror do the same. He knew the beard was there, but he was a little surprised that it was so much darker than it had been the first time he'd tried to grow it out. It was even darker than the hair at his temples, which didn't usually get bleached by the sun.

It didn't hide how gaunt his face had become. His eyes looked sunken, and his eye sockets were still a little swollen from healing welts and knots.

Mac lifted up his chin, studying his nose. Outside of a kind of hawkish bump in the middle, it still looked reasonably straight.

His hair was as gross as it felt, and now that he'd lifted his chin, he could see the cords on his neck, and all the bruising around his collarbone. There were some marks on his throat, too, as if someone really had choked him out. His chest was scrawnier, he could see that he'd lost quite a bit of muscle mass. Lots of bruising.

Explained why coughing hurt so much.

Mac continued staring at his reflection, turning to get a look at his back. Nothing there he didn't remember. All the scrapes, and some hellacious bruising. He knew from the way his shoulders felt that he'd torn muscles there, but it really didn't look as bad as he'd expected.

Mac glanced down at himself, no longer needing the mirror to see his torso, and the bandage on his right hip. He peeled it off, surprised to find a couple stitches underneath. It had been painful for so long he hadn't really even noticed it. There must have been an abscess or infection that the doctor had had to cut out. He was going to have a very obvious scar.

His eyes drifted back up to his shoulder, to the mark of the bullet he'd taken the night they lost Nikki.

If he kept this up, he was gonna end up looking like Jack before everything was said and done.

Mac glanced up at the mirror again, it was starting to fog up with condensation, but he didn't see his partner's face. Didn't hear his voice.

Which was probably for the best, considering he was staring at his own naked body in a mirror like he'd never seen it before. And it hit him like a jolt - that was basically true. It was the first time he'd actually had a chance to really take in the damage.

Mac gave the stranger in the mirror another long look, then continued to the shower stall.

The water was almost too hot, and Mac turned it down so he didn't blow through it all too quickly. He took deep breaths of the steam, grimacing as the coughs pulled pretty much everything possible, but he kept at it, with his hands braced against the dingy green tile. It wasn't too long before he got the worst of it up, able to take deeper breaths more freely, and Mac closed his eyes and let the hot water run down his back.

It was a good ninety degrees in that bathroom, but it still felt awesome.

His wrist bandages were soaked, and that was fine – would make them easier to get off after the shower. He took the bar of soap to his hair, which was too long – even by his standards – and it brought back memories of the army, using bar soap because there was no shampoo and just being grateful for getting a damn shower at all, instead of a couple minutes with a packet of wet wipes.

Mac let the water rinse down his scalp, carrying away the soap and everything else that had been in his hair for god knew how long, and he closed his eyes against the spray, just enjoying it. The showerhead sputtered, splashing him unexpectedly in the face, and Mac reflexively jerked away, backing up rapidly and slinging the water off. He opened his eyes wide, reminding himself where he was, and he felt his heart rate pick up as adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream.

_You're fine, idiot. It's just a shower._

A voice floated over from the direction of the bench. "Hey man . . . you good in there?"

Mac dragged his right hand down his face, coughing a little, and he stepped back under the spray and turned it a little cooler.

". . . yeah, Jack. I'm good."

-M-

In order to be true to the throwback, I should have had a homeless chick find Mac, but a couple kids made more sense. For those who don't remember the episode, Tommy (T-Bird) was the kid who lived next door to Jack, who robbed Jack's place to impress his friends. Bozer and Jill caught him. Instead of telling his mom, Bozer got Tommy a job at the Grind House, which was the burger joint he worked before joining the Phoenix Foundation.

I know it's a little contrived, but I'm going to blame that on the original MacGyver writers. Otherwise, our team would have no chance of finding Mac.

I also want to point out, Mac's POV is not to be trusted. He is responding to what he thinks is going on, not necessarily what actually is going on. And he appears very, very functional to most people who see him, including high school tough guys who aren't going to be paying that much attention. So Mac's actual condition – until he looked at himself in the mirror – is potentially worse or better than it appears to either the kids or Mac himself.


	22. Chapter 22

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

He tucked the last bottle into the mesh pocket, where it would be easy to grab, and did a final visual sweep of the office.

There was nothing else to pack. At least nothing visible in the quickly darkening space. No trace that he'd ever been there, save a few footprints on the floor, and a dust-free office chair.

Mac flipped the hood up over his hair, still a little damp from the shower, and then shouldered the duffel. It was a little heavier than it had been the first night, he had less food but more water. A quick stop at a corner market for some fruit and bread, and he'd be set.

He pushed the hood back down, over top of the duffel strap, and followed his footprints back out of the office, into the main corridor.

The sun had just finished going down, and there was still plenty of activity on the street. Mac wandered aimlessly out into the main room, past the boxing ring. His shoulders hurt too much to reach up and test the ropes, but his eyes picked out a few frayed fibers, caught in the glint of light from the streetlamps outside.

He still had a few hours to kill, but staying in the office felt too claustrophobic, and he couldn't very well justify draining the batteries of his tac light because he was fucking afraid of the dark. There was enough ambient light out in this room to see by, and he could hear the street better anyway.

The side door he'd originally entered through was too noisy, so he chose the back alley door as his exit. He dumped the duffel in the corner of the room closest to it, eying an overturned folding chair for a moment before giving up on that, and simply sitting down on the floor. He leaned back gingerly, using the duffel as a pillow, unzipped the hoodie, and tried to relax.

He had no fear of falling asleep for the night – he couldn't manage more than a few hours at a time no matter how exhausted he was, and probably wouldn't be able to for a while. Napping had gotten him this far, and he couldn't think of a better way to pass the time until the street would be empty enough for him to scope out a new hidey-hole.

Naturally, sleep didn't come. He was lying on a cold floor in a hot room. It was dark, and the windows were high on the wall, letting in streetlight from one side.

Not terribly unlike his prayer room.

Much more to listen to, though. The sounds of the city, rushing by. He'd heard airplanes, car horns, the rumble of trucks and the whine of streetbikes. Sometimes he thought he smelled exhaust over the rot and dust. People's voices, sometimes shouting, but too unintelligible to pick out the language.

Definitely a city. He just couldn't be sure which one.

Mac shifted and brought up his hands, idly toying with the bandage on the left. He'd had to cut off the originals, they'd been too soggy and unwinding them had just hurt too much. His wrists were pretty swollen, but not as much as he'd expect if there were actually broken bones, which was a pleasant surprise. He'd wound a few crafting sticks he'd found into the outer layers of ace bandage, to give himself a little suppot. His job wasn't quite as neat as the previous one had been, but they'd hold.

They were both as badly lacerated as he remembered, and infected, but he'd known that before this whole little adventure had started.

"Oh, so now we're calling it an adventure."

Mac felt his lower lip twitch. ". . . Boze. Thought you were gone."

Someone settled onto the ground on his right, and Mac felt the duffel shift as another head came down.

"Yeah, well, nothin' better to do," his roommate pointed out. "Besides, you're half asleep. And scared. That's my cue, man."

Sounded about right. "And what am I afraid of, Boze?"

His friend chuckled humorlessly. "Same thing you've been worried about this whole time. You're gonna have to make a call, sooner or later, and you don't like the direction you're leaning in."

No. No he didn't.

Beside him, Bozer sighed softly. "And if you're wrong . . . you can't take it back."

Very true.

"Also . . ." His friend hesitated. Or maybe it was really his brain, not willing to verbalize the thought. ". . . if you're still there, man . . . you're still there. With them."

Mac closed his eyes, and laid his hands carefully on his stomach, where he wouldn't be able to tell if they were shaking.

His friend cleared his throat. "So, yeah. Anyway. Pretty sure I'm supposed to be distracting you from all that."

. . . yeah. Probably.

"I mean, if this were real . . . well, you'd still be in pretty hot water, my friend."

He gave a weak chuckle, because he knew Boze expected it.

"Breaking out of the Phoenix – twice now. Matty'd be tearing the city apart looking for you."

Yeah. Drugged up agent loose in LA. Someone like that might toss a smoke grenade at a kid.

"Hey," Jack protested, it sounded like he was in the boxing ring but Mac didn't bother to look. "I am doing my best to keep you safe, brother."

Safe.

How in the hell was he supposed to keep himself – or anyone else – safe? He thought someone was lying right next to him, for crying out loud.

He heard clothing shift, beside him, and then a warm hand clamped down on his.

Mac flinched, jerking himself up off the duffel, and no one stopped him. There was no one beside him, no hand. Something was certainly moving, it was easily the size of his thumb but it certainly wasn't Bozer, and Mac swallowed a cough and forced himself to relax back against the bag.

He'd fallen asleep.

"You're an asshole," he told the cockroach, twitching his right leg to force the thing to continue skittering off across the floor. The temperature had dropped, and he zipped up the hoodie, listening to what sounded like a basketball being dribbled down the street.

No idea of the time.

Mac continued listening, staring at the reddish glint of the high-pressure sodium light coming through the window. That light wouldn't tell him the time, though it would eventually overheat and turn itself off for a few minutes to cool. He could mark time by that cycle if he was inclined.

No church bells, which he found oddly disappointing. No mosques, either.

He concentrated, listening more closely. A car, with the radio thumping. Tune didn't sound familiar. Quiet voices, a pair of people passing on the street.

Maybe things had calmed down enough to risk heading out.

Mac tucked his hands carefully into the pockets of the hoodie, giving it another five count to make sure this wasn't just the eight pm dinner lull. He was pretty sure late dinners were a cultural phenomena in both places, which didn't really help him. He drew up his knees, surprised at how cold it was getting, and his legs felt stiff, as if he'd been laying there for hours.

Maybe he had been.

Mac sat up with some difficulty, and realized that he was shivering. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, tucking his fingers under the hoodie collar against warm skin, not surprised to find they felt like ice. It wasn't like he'd been laying there all night, and even if he had been –

His fingertips had brushed his carotid, and his pulse felt fast. Faster than it should have been if he'd just been lying down. He put the fingers back, pressing them into his throat, and took his pulse like he meant it. Easily over a hundred bpm.

He was shivering, his extremities were cold, his heart rate was elevated, and now that he'd thought about it, the cadence of his breathing was picking up.

Shock.

But why the hell was he going into shock?

Mac turned awkwardly, pulling the duffel around and unzipping the main compartment. Near the bottom he found what he was looking for, a hard, light rectangle about the size of a smartphone, and he pulled it out, unzipping the pouch.

The mylar emergency blanket was loud and crinkly, but it unfolded easily, and even with limited flexibility in his shoulders he got it around himself. Mac leaned against the wall, pulling the edges of the blanket around the front of him, and he huddled under it a moment, until he felt the warmth start to build up. His shivering was becoming marked, and saliva started to collect under his tongue, a precursor to nausea.

Mac poked his hand out of the blanket, trying to inspect it in the little light there was, but he didn't see any new marks, or any swelling. It had been a cockroach, he was sure, not a spider or something venomous.

Which didn't mean he hadn't gotten bitten by something –

". . . there's a much simpler answer," Jack drawled, again from near the boxing ring, and Mac raised his eyes, watching his partner put two hands on the top rope and lean back, testing the elasticity. The ropes creaked with his weight, and tiny plumes of dust rose up in the air.

"Withdrawal symptoms, kiddo. I know it sucks, but there ya go."

Mac thought about that for a moment. Hallucinogens would typically come with raised blood pressure and heart rate, excess salivation, nausea, appetite suppression . . . but usually the opposite of low body temperature. He should be running a fever-

"Winner winner, chicken dinner."

But he already knew that, he was taking antibiotics. And his last trip to the restroom had more than proven that he was _still_ taking them. The tylenol should be helping to keep that under wraps.

Just like it should have been keeping the muscle pain down. So maybe the stiffness was more than just stiffness. Jack was probably right. This was probably withdrawal.

Of course, if his system was responding negatively to the lack of drugs, it begged the question of why the hell he could still see –

But there was no one in the boxing ring. No dust in the air.

Mac glanced around the room, but there was no sign of either of them.

-M-

"We got a match."

Jack put on the brakes, glancing at the analyst a second before looking pointedly at the big screen, and she gave him a distracted nod, typing away. A new window appeared over the city grid, video, it looked like the front counter of an LAPD station.

"This is real time," she said, for the benefit of the rest of the agents in the TOC.

Sure enough, there was a thin blond in a hoodie, back to the camera, being processed. Jack studied the figure a moment, but even with the weird camera angle and the cops jostling him, he could tell it wasn't Mac.

Too short. Everything about him was too short. His arms were too short, his legs were too short, his hair was too short, and his fingers were too short. He was stumbling, barely able to keep his feet, and Jack felt a small pang of worry.

Just because that wasn't Mac, didn't mean he wasn't in that kinda shape.

Jack started walking again, well before anyone could get a positive ID on whoever that kid was, and Matty took the cue and rejoined him as he held the glass door open.

"Did you sleep?"

Jack effortlessly suppressed an eye roll. Much as he hadn't wanted to, it just kinda happened. The clean clothes, that had taken actual effort on his part. "Yes I slept."

"Good. So you'll only say the usual amount of stupid things."

"Yep," he agreed glibly.

She was quiet a moment, and Jack glanced down to find Matty staring at him with narrowed eyes. She too was wearing clean clothes, and she too appeared to have either slept, or just caked on so much eye makeup no one could tell. "Jack-"

He shook his head emphatically. "You don't wanna ask me that."

What he was up to. That was kind of the point of giving him vague orders.

She cocked her head to the side, giving him a look that meant she thought he had just said one of his usual stupid things, and he glanced down the hall. Still plenty busy for eight am, and he waited until they caught the elevator. It was, for better or worse, empty, and Matty gave him one last glare, and hit the button for the sixth floor.

He'd once made a joke that she always liked to push the elevator buttons, just like a kid.

Once.

She fixed him with an _I'm waiting_ expression, and he very carefully did _not_ glance up at the camera he knew was in the corner. "We had Riley narrow down her search to places Mac actually goes. Someplace he'd driven or walked past. He's stayed dark too long to have just stumbled onto someplace suitable."

She just continued glaring at him. " . . . and?"

He shrugged. "And that's it. Riley gave all the maybes to agents, and they're combin' through 'em all. If we get through the list with no joy, then, Matty . . . all signs point to blowin' Dodge."

She might have been asking him to put on a show for the camera – just in case Oversight was watching, and there was a damn _reason_ they were called Oversight – but she might have been asking him for a real sitrep. And he'd told her the truth.

Riley had taken Mac's personal phone, and used the last three months' of GPS coordinates in LA to map out the roads he most frequently drove. Anything super promising, like a shortcut he took more than four or five times, she sent to Saito or John to check out. The rest were legitimately spread out among the recovery agents.

And maybe he hadn't spent enough time with the kid recently, because Mac went to some _strange_ places. Riley had had to add junkyards to her search, since Mac apparently went shopping there more frequently than he actually hit the grocery. Then again, Boze did a lot of the cooking.

And Boze sometimes did the driving. Riley hadn't overlooked that. Any place that Bozer could remember Mac being interested in – an old two-story brownstone he'd once considered fixing up for an experiment in urban agriculture, some crazy ass science club he'd talked about starting in the unused basement of the Mark Twain branch of the Los Angeles Public Library – any spot any one of them could remember him noticing, they put on the list for Saito and John.

Zee was all in, but had been more than a little offended that Jack wasn't willing to bring in Kevin Todd. Not that he had anything against the kid, and he'd put his life on the line like everyone else to take that manor and get Mac back, but like Mac, Kevin struck him as someone who was going to follow the rules unless he had a good reason not to.

And like Mac, he was too young to realize that with Oversight this far up their collective asses, the Phoenix Foundation wasn't the only agency looking for Mac. Not anymore. That was what Matty had told him, him and Bozer, loud and clear yesterday afternoon.

Make sure we actually retrieve him.

The 'we' was the operative word.

And so, since Zee and Kevin were a pair, Zee was being their eyes and ears in the TOC, in case there were any leads that were intentionally being kept from Jack and the rest of Mac's team.

He'd bring in Alleycat and Benjy if he had to, but honestly, running their own recovery op under the official one was the kind of thing that you didn't get forgiven for after the fact. It was better that no one ever knew it had happened at all.

Including Matty. If Oversight could prove her agents were working behind her back, they'd transfer her to some administrative function elsewhere if they didn't make her retire outright.

Jack took a moment to wonder if she could actually retire. Actually had the cash to do so.

Almost in the same moment, he decided he didn't want to know.

The elevator doors opened without fanfare, and he took the lead, turning left for the row of very official conference rooms they saved for thinktank presentations, politician visits, and debriefings that were meant to be slightly less intimidating than the ones they held down in Interrogation.

Which only made them worse. He'd heard a story that one guy had been thrown against the glass windows when he'd displayed a few microexpressions that indicated he was lying. Cage'd –

"Hey, is Samantha up and around yet?"

Matty graced him with a look that wasn't openly hostile. "She's getting her walking papers later this morning, as long as she agrees to a few stipulations. Her debrief will be this afternoon."

Jack just nodded. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, so he'd lost those hours and had just enough time to grab a shower and clothes on the fourth floor before coming down to the TOC. He'd wanted to stop in Medical and see how she was doing.

But it sounded like she was gonna be fine. She'd probably have a hell of a story to tell. And when she was better, he was going to have a little talk with her about sniper tactics. And how she needed to develop some.

Or third round was going to be the charm. Murdoc and that asshole – Major Something Uglyzon – had been good, but they weren't _that_ good. She'd walked right into both those shots.

Maybe he'd suggest a trade. Sniper tactics in return for interrogation tactics. That might appeal to her.

"She actually listens to the doctors when they tell her how to recover," Matty continued. "I see your limp is much better this morning."

There was no way he was gonna pull the wounded card on Oversight. He was Delta. He had a reputation to uphold.

Jack gave her a wink as he pulled open the door, and she preceded him into the room. There were five others; four men and one woman. As usual, they'd placed their backs against the one solid wall in the room, meaning his would be exposed to the windows, but at least they hadn't put themselves between him and the exit.

Jack took the seat that was clearly meant for him. There was a yellow legal pad and a pen, and he wasted no time in uncapping it and drawing himself a nice smiley face on the top of the page.

Matty took her seat silently, and the silver-haired man in the center cleared his throat.

"Begin debrief. August 28th, 2017, 0800. Agent Dalton, Jack Wyatt. Concerning Operation C739-01."

That sounded about right, and Jack gave him a bright smile.

It wasn't the first time, or even the third time he'd been debriefed by Oversight, in its many suits and faces. He didn't recognize a single one of these people, and that worried him just a tiny bit. Either they were nobodies, and all of this was a big show for nothing, or they had been intentionally chosen as interviewers who had absolutely zero contact with the agents to be debriefed, thus had zero positive biases.

Or negative ones.

But he'd always played the dumb card, he'd learned that back in Delta, and it hadn't failed him yet.

"We have your written report, covering the incidents from August 3rd, when you arrived in Istanbul and made contact with the package, through August 16th, when you were recovered from a gypsy slum in Stolipinovo." The man held up the report, which was a few pages shorter than one would expect for about two weeks of activity.

Considering he'd slept through half of it, and wished he'd been sleeping for the other half, Jack wasn't about to apologize for that. Nor was it a question. He left his pleasant smile on his face.

"I'd like to discuss the specifics around your time with the _Bordo Berililers_ under Colonel Aydin's command."

Fair enough. Jack looked between the six faces expectantly.

Chief Silverhair cleared his throat, and the projector screen started to come down from the ceiling as if by magic. He spoke over the quiet hum of the motor. "You stated in your report that after you and your partner were attacked and neutralized at the museum, you regained consciousness during transport."

Also not a question, but Jack was willing to give Chief Silverhair a pass. "Yes I did."

"And at this time, you were able to overcome your restraints and attacked two of the colonel's men."

Jack visibly weighed those words. It wasn't quite right, but he wasn't really sure where the chief was headed. "I attacked one, sir. The other one heard the noise and came to help."

For some reason, the chief made a note on his paper. "During this altercation, did you exchange words with the soldiers?"

Jack felt his eyebrows crawling for his hairline. "Uh, yeah, probably." It seemed like a hundred years ago, but he must have had something good, because he'd woken up in time to get the lay of the truck, and realize that Chevalier and family were in there with him. Mac too, but the kid was out like he meant it.

What the hell had he said . . . ? Probably something about someone's momma –

"Did they attempt to offer you money or some other type of bribe?"

Jack refocused on the present, and set down the pen to fold his hands on the table. "Well, now, let me think. Hmm." From the table, Matty gave him a warning look, and Jack stopped to rub his chin. "Let's see. I think I made a yo momma joke – those always go over well with military types, you know – and then I took the guy's gun away, but he nailed me right above the eye, got a little blood in it. He probably said something, but it was in Turkish, so . . ." He spread his hands helplessly. "Hard to say."

"Was any offer made to spare your life in return for cooperation?"

Jack focused on the one unknown woman, who he decided to call the Ferret, due to her incredible skinniness and pointy face.

"Not that I heard." Ah, damn. And he was probably never gonna see that belt again, either.

"So there was no offer of leniency made to you at any time, by any member of the colonel's militia?"

Jack focused back on Chief Silverhair. "Nope. And I'm pretty sure they demonstrated that . . ."

The Ferret picked up a slim black remote, and an image was projected onto the lowered screen. It was a satellite view, it took Jack a second to place it because he'd never actually seen the clearing from above. The hotboxes kind of gave it away, though.

Several figures emerged from a tent, and it didn't take Jack long to determine that one of them was Mac. In fact, it didn't take any of them long; a second image superimposed over the clearing, at a much higher zoom, and then Mac's face was staring right at them. Jack blinked, and then the man in front of him, the colonel, actually looked up as well, smiling and waving. He said something, it looked to Jack like –

"Hello, Americans?" he sounded it out loud. "Well, he knew his audience, I'll give him that."

The zoomed image box flashed, which was an indication that the software had taken a photograph of it, and then disappeared, and he watched the colonel drag Mac out in front of the sweatboxes.

Jack frowned a little, but didn't say anything as the interviewers let it play out. From this view, it didn't look like much of anything. Little puffs of dust while those assholes put four rounds into every box. They'd been labeled in red text, and Jack found his gaze had dropped to the desk when they got to _Chevalier, Olivia_.

The little girl'd finally fallen asleep, too, or else passed out from the heat, about twenty minutes before that. He'd hoped she'd stay that way, but –

But she hadn't.

And he could see that Mac had done everything he could. The colonel had a buck fifty on him, easy, and Mac'd been restrained just like Jack himself.

The image began to pixelate, but Chief Silverhair continued to let it play, and then the solider by the sweat boxes caught a pair of keys and opened up Jack's. He had no recollection of that. He remembered getting shot, and he remembered waking up soaked in gasoline.

The image pixelated further as someone decided to get a close up, and then it sharpened, and Jack was staring at his own face.

The Ferret paused it, and Jack tore his eyes away from the projected image and back to Chief Silverhair.

The man didn't look moved in the slightest. "The Chevaliers' bodies were all recovered. Their autopsies showed that they died from those gunshot wounds. Do you care to explain why you alone survived?"

Jack gave the man a hard stare, then turned and looked back at the projector. "Does – does that _look like_ they spared me, to you? Does that look like they went _easy_ on me? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Of course Oversight would be making sure that none of the Phoenix agents were in cahoots with the colonel, since Aydin had gotten a mole in the State Department. And honestly, the question didn't unsettle him nearly as much as the image did.

That was what they'd watched.

That was what Mac had been forced to watch. Matty.

Riley.

How the hell could anyone have thought he lived through that? Believed it so strongly that she declared computer warfare on a world power looking for the slightest clue?

How the hell could _any_ of them let her hold out hope like that? He was sitting there breathin' and he couldn't believe he was alive. God, that tag to his throat had bled like hell, it looked like a through and through from this angle, instead of a long graze. He'd slipped back onto his back when they'd opened the box, so you couldn't tell that he'd squeezed himself to the side.

Looking at it from a bird's eye view, Jack really had no idea how the hell he walked away from that.

No one should have. And no one should have believed that he had.

"Do you need a moment to compose yourself, Agent Dalton?"

"No I do not need a moment," he snapped. "And no, I did not receive or get offered any bribes by any of Colonel Aydin's men. I got four bulletholes instead. Any other stupid questions?"

Chief Silverhair made another note on his paper. As far as Jack knew, he was also just drawing smiley faces. "Was Agent MacGyver conscious when you regained consciousness on the transport?"

That was definitely a stupid question. He'd said as much in his report. "No he was not."

"Did you hear any part of any conversation between Colonel Aydin and Agent MacGyver?"

The no was on his lips before he caught himself, and he had to bite it back. "Uh, yeah. I heard Mac – Agent MacGyver – trying to get them to stop while they were shooting up the hotboxes."

"And what did Agent MacGyver say?"

Jack gave the chief a look that conveyed how stupid he felt that question was. "He asked the colonel what he wanted. I didn't hear the guy's reply. He told 'em to stop, and when they didn't he . . . he begged for their lives."

And god, but the kid must have been pissed. Once the shock wore off –

Well, apparently he'd been pissed enough to bring down the bird. Riley and Cage had already told him that much.

"So you have no idea what Agent MacGyver and Colonel Aydin were discussing in the tent?"

Jack looked at the speaker, the man sitting next to Matty. He was about forty, wearing a black suit and a black patterned tie. He decided that guy was going to be Henchman One.

"Didn't we just establish I was locked in a box that entire time?" He pointed back to the screen, to his own dead face.

"Yes, and you somehow survived. Despite the apparent seriousness of those injuries, it seems you were not only able to walk away, but you covered several kilometers over the course of the afternoon. When you were rescued in the nick of time by . . . Roma," he read off his report. "Who just happened to be in the area."

The entire debrief was going to be nothing but supposition on what Mac may or may not have said or done. No wonder Bozer had decided to withhold what he had.

"Roma, yes. Who tried to sell me right back to Colonel Aydin a couple weeks later," he pointed out, in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice.

"If everyone would turn to page twenty in the written report-"

-M-

There was a quiet tap, and then a bit of static as the encryption protocol ran. "Negative on MT."

Bozer carefully schooled his face, waiting a few seconds before casually grabbing a pen and marking it off the list.

No one else in the TOC responded. Then again, no one else in the TOC had an earwig in, even Riley. Right now she was up front, talking to Jill and Liz. She'd pulled out her coms when she went up there, just in case someone spotted it.

The fact that he was in a room with a bunch of highly trained agents and spies, listening in on an op even they didn't know about, would have been a hell of a lot cooler if it wasn't his roommate's face grinning down at him. They left it up on the board much longer, it was gonna burn in, and then there would always be a ghost of Mac, smiling on operations until they swapped out the monitors.

"And I didn't mean ghost," he said aloud, pointing his pen at Mac. "So don't go getting' any ideas."

Under his photograph, the data was being constantly updated. His last known position hadn't changed, but his physical condition had been gradually deteriorating as Medical told them the general progress he would make physically, based on the meds he'd stolen and some assumption that he was with it enough to take them.

At two am on the morning he bolted, he could run two miles. Considering he had pneumonia, that wasn't nearly as insulting as it might otherwise have been. Now it was down to a few city blocks. His presence – how he would seem to the people around him - had been marked as 'unremarkable,' which Bozer knew from research into his cop dramas meant normal. Now it had downgraded to "some physical and verbal difficulty."

He wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but he figured it meant Mac was going to start feeling worse and worse the longer he was moving around and away from the good drugs.

It would have been nice if the library had panned out. At least then he'd know that Mac was someplace with water, vending machines, and air conditioning. Of course, he'd probably not had any of those things for the past three weeks, so in comparison with Turkey, LA at the end of August wasn't so bad.

Bozer's phone vibrated, and he unlocked it, ready to reply that it was a good copy. Sure enough, Saito had confirmed his verbal report with a text, and Bozer simply typed _GC_ and hit send.

The phone didn't vibrate again, but the little round Signal text notification reappeared on his icon tray, and he frowned at the phone and clicked it again.

It wasn't a second notification on Saito's text, and Bozer's lips quirked up in a small grin.

_Hey what up dawg_

He glanced at the clock in the upper corner, then smirked at the phone, and replied.

_At work. You too rite?_

Tommy replied pretty quickly, which meant he was mopping. Since it was quarter til eleven, that would be the last cleanup before they opened the doors.

_G howd u guess_

Boze glanced up to see Riley on her way back. He let the smile drop at her expectant look, to make sure he didn't give her the wrong impression, and her expression fell, just a little. Despite the sling and no-less-noticeable-even-though-it-was-flesh-colored bandage around her neck, she seemed to be moving around okay.

"What's got you grinning?" she asked, setting the laptop down on the table before she grabbed her slinged right arm and maneuvered herself into the chair.

"Just texting with a friend." Riley still had no idea that Tommy, Janese's son, had been the one to rob Jack and almost sent him into a tailspin when his father's dog tags had been part of the missing loot. Rather than nail the kid to the wall, Bozer had pulled a Mac and tried to set the kid on a better path.

There was no harm in telling Riley – unless she let it slip to Jack. Bozer had already decided that he'd let Tommy settle into better habits before they crossed that bridge.

_U n2 real estate?_

Bozer gave the phone a suspicious look.

_No y?_

Riley massaged her neck, using it as an excuse to replace her earbud, and then she glanced over at their personal list. She frowned when she saw that MT had been marked off. "I was kinda hoping on that one."

"Yeah, me too," Bozer agreed. "I added a couple, Jay's on his way."

Despite John being one of the most common names in the English-speaking world, there was currently only one agent named John working the TOC. It was easier to just say Jay. There was no way to abbreviate Saito into anything that anyone wouldn't immediately guess, so Bozer had just been calling him "my man." If he meant any of his other men, he would add a qualifier, like Jack or Mac or Zee.

It occurred to Bozer that he had . . . men. It had been Jack and Mac for ages, but after living in a house with those guys for weeks, he had a feeling he might legit have a couple total badass friends at Phoenix after all this was said and done.

This being getting Mac back, and keeping him til he could get his head on straight.

_Fam said u $$ a building on Psdna_

Bozer kept his eye roll mostly to himself. He knew damn well who 'fam' was.

_Fam said robbing Jack was a good plan_

He clicked the screen off, just in case Riley's eyes were that good, but she was checking out the places he'd added.

In his ear, there was a quiet pop, and a little static. "Negative on JY02."

Neither of them did anything, Bozer glaring back at the board, Riley typing away on her laptop. After a few seconds, Boze made a mark on the list, and his phone buzzed.

He gave it a good minute, just to make sure no one started correlating him marking on a pad of paper with him checking his phone.

The text was from John, and he gave the same reply he had before. _GC._

Another text from Tommy rolled in.

_Some crckhd nu u_

A crackhead. Like he knew any crackheads, except maybe Jack –

Bozer clamped his lips tightly closed, and replied back instantly.

_What building on Pasadena?_

He clicked the phone dark, so that it would vibrate when the next text arrived, and he stared at Mac. He wasn't a crackhead by any stretch, but he was skinny, his clothes were too big, the last thing they'd seen him in were jeans and a hoodie, if he was hanging out with the homeless it would make sense someone would get that impression, but –

His phone vibrated, and Bozer didn't even try to wait.

_Boyzngrls club by my old schl._

"Gimme," he said immediately, gesturing at her laptop, and Riley turned and gave him a look.

"Uh, okay, _Jack_ ," she drawled, but she handed it to him, and he clicked back to her map of LA. It looked like a Google map, but the last thing on it was the junkyard they'd sent John Tunne to check out, so it must have been secure somehow. He cleared her search and entered "Boys and Girls Club Los Angeles Pasadena."

Sure enough, there was a Boys and Girls Club, on Pasadena. Right behind the school Tommy had been attending last semester. Not ten miles from the Grind House.

Bozer handed the laptop back to Riley. "My man should check that out _pronto_."

Her eyebrows bunched as she glanced at the map, but she grabbed the GPS coordinates and windowed to some little black rectangle that meant she was doing something beyond the skill of most people.

In their ears, there was a light pop. "I'm gonna assume that pronto meant this is a good lead. Rerouting to BGC. ETA four minutes."

It was Saito.

Bozer licked his lips. "You know, Jay might wanna join him on this one." He unlocked his phone and handed it to Riley. Learning that he knew who robbed Jack's place was small potatoes compared to this.

Riley took the phone one handed and scrolled, and then handed it back with a light laugh. "Dude, that's awesome," she said, like he'd just shown her a funny meme. Then she shook her head and went back to her computer, smile still on her lips. Right back to that little black rectangle.

Of course, their coms were hot, same as John and Saito's, and apparently Saito had just forwarded on the text, because John replied before Riley had even finished. "Rerouting to BGC. ETA six minutes."

Almost immediately thereafter, there was another pop. "Wait for me."

Then another short pause. "Thinking the same thing."

From what Bozer had gotten out of them over meals at the villa, John and Saito had been partners nearly as long as Jack and Mac. They knew each other well. Clearly they knew what they were talking about. He wasn't sure _he_ did.

Again, Bozer's eyes were drawn to his smiling buddy. And the words in bold red.

*** ARMED ***

Surely they didn't think –

But even if Mac didn't have a gun, he was loose in a building and had been for at least a day. It would be stupid to assume that he couldn't set some kind of trap. Of course, that meant that every single place they'd send Saito and John to, they'd both been checking for booby traps, this whole time.

Of course, all the other places had been guesses. Saito must have picked up from his voice that this wasn't a guess.

He flicked back to the text with Tommy.

_When did this happen?_

Riley tilted her laptop towards him, and Bozer saw that a blue path had been overlaid over a part of the city. The blue path was Mac's most traveled routes. This part of Pasadena was on it. He'd driven past it a lot.

"But . . . why didn't we flag it?" he asked quietly.

Riley tapped the screen, but Bozer figured out the answer to his own question before she did.

School. They didn't think Mac would go anywhere near anything that was heavily trafficked. Or risk himself anywhere near a place with a lot of civilians.

His phone vibrated.

_Fam came bai last nite_

So Mac could already be gone.

"Hope he decided to sleep over," Bozer said out loud, still staring at his phone.

"I hope you're talking about Jack," a smooth voice purred, just behind them, and Bozer almost jumped out of his seat.

Fortunately, by the time he did it, the voice had registered, and his smile could not have been bigger. "Cage!"

She was on the other side of the cubicle wall, clearly having come in the back entrance, and outside of her black hair being more flyaway than usual – and the neck brace – the Lady King was on her feet. Her hazel eyes were clear, and her smile seemed easy.

He looped the wall, coming to give her the world's most gentle and awkward hug, and she took it like a pro. He could feel that she had as many wrapping around her ribs as he did, and belatedly he remembered that she'd taken a couple pieces of bullet shrapnel in the lungs.

"Man I am glad to see you on your feet," he said, and he meant it. Hearing a doc say she was going to be fine was one thing. Seeing her was something else.

Finding her on the library floor, that had been something entirely different.

"Hey, Samantha," Riley greeted, still in her seat. "How do you feel?"

The woman raised her arms gingerly and leaned on the cube wall. "Like I got kicked in the chest by a mule and drank way too much tequila."

An idea started to form in Bozer's head, which apparently transferred itself immediately to his face, because Samantha suddenly gave him a look.

He held up a hand. "So, about the tequila . . . have you ever met Zee?"

Riley snorted, but Cage didn't look at her, and Bozer did his absolute best to think of nothing but Zee, and how awesome that tequila had been.

In his ear, there was a quiet pop. "Holding at BGC."

"Zee?"

"Alejandro De los Reyes," Riley supplied, and that did get the other agent's attention. "I think he works mostly South America."

Bozer blinked, and then also turned to look at her. "Seriously?"

Riley made a vague gesture with her hand. "We call him Zee, why stop being racist now?" She rolled her eyes. "That and the drug lord he's been watching is apparently older than the knight from the Last Crusade and fell and broke his hip or something, so he pretty much had nothing to do. Matty pulled him in just for the cannery."

That kind of explained how he'd had all those bottles of tequila still unconsumed. He'd only gotten there about two days before the colonel's men had blown the hell out of the cannery.

"Yes, I think I met him on the plane." Cage clearly wasn't following.

"You should ask him about tequila," Bozer suggested. "Great stuff. No hangover."

The brunette made a noncommittal noise. "I'm sure it will go well with my pain medication."

"Went great with mine," Riley muttered under her breath, distracted by her laptop once again.

A quiet pop in his ear. "At BGC. Any sign?"

"So!" Bozer clapped his hands, then winced as the impact reverberated through his ribs. "I take it you're here to be debriefed?"

Cage made a show of glancing around at all the activity in the room. "I'm here to find out if we've found Mac."

He didn't need to put on a show to answer that honestly. "No. No we haven't."

She looked sympathetic in lieu of nodding. "Any leads?"

In answer, Riley gestured at the map. "What's in blue are the routes Mac typically drives. We think he's holed up someplace he's seen before, if not actually visited. Agents are canvassing anything that would give him privacy, protection from the elements, and water."

The brunette pursed her lips. "So, cash motels, shelters, construction sites –"

Riley did her best to nod around the bandages. "AirBnBs that were registered on public computers, rental homes . . . anything we could think of."

Cage's eyes were drawn back to the board. "I presume the armed means he took someone's cellphone with him?"

Bozer snorted. "How many of yours has he confiscated?"

"Just two." She clearly hadn't missed his attempt to redirect.

In his ear, a quiet pop. "Got toolmarks on the side entrance."

"He took a gun," Bozer blurted, then dropped his eyes. "Mac . . . hit a safehouse for supplies. He took a gun." He could almost feel Riley's eyes on him, boring holes in his back. He had not had enough sleep to listen to Saito and John, on the cusp of finding his best friend, and hide it from Cage at the same time.

But maybe they could bring her in . . .?

"I-"

"You ever seen Mac hold a gun?" Riley's voice was much more normal. "Not to take the bullets out of it. Like, the whole gun."

Cage was quiet a moment. "Didn't he pull a gun during the retrieval?"

Bozer found himself nodding, and almost froze when he heard a loud pop in his ear, that had nothing to do with the encryption protocols.

"Si –!"

"He did," Riley admitted, there in the room with him, instead of just in his ear. "On Jack. Jack said that Mac didn't look like he recognized any of them. But he knew who we were, on the plane. He'd been drugged."

Bozer's earwig popped. "I'm good. Just noise." Saito didn't sound concerned. "I think the entrances have been rigged. We'll do recon. Stand by."

Cage didn't seem surprised by the information. "That's to be expected," she said softly. "Do we know what they administered?"

Riley tapped a few keys, then showed the report to Samantha. She leaned slightly over the cube wall to see. Nothing much changed, except her eyes seemed to harden for a moment. She gave Riley a tight smile, and Riley put the laptop back on the table.

"I take it nothing good."

Samantha's eyes had gone back to Mac's headshot. "You could say that."

"I dunno, I tried LSD in the seventies and it wasn't so bad."

Riley swiveled in her chair, and Bozer saw Jack, sauntering down the corridor like nothing had happened. Bozer glanced at his watch.

Two hours and fifty-eight minutes. "You beat my record."

"Course I did, brother. Not my first rodeo." He held out a fist, which Bozer obediently bumped. Jack then continued around to the back of the cube, giving Cage a once-over. "How you feel?"

The brunette gave Jack a slow smile. "I thought you didn't like it when people asked you that question."

"Hah," Jack chuckled. "I don't like it when they ask me how much pain I'm in. There's a difference. One's just a number, the other one means somethin'."

Cage thought about that for a moment. "I'll live."

Bozer thought it was the flippant answer, but it seemed to mean something to Jack, who nodded, and then held out his arms.

"Come on. Bring it in."

Her lips parted, like she was going to protest, and Jack just walked up to her and enfolded her up anyway. There was a low hum as he said something to her, and her lips quirked, and then he let her go with a firm nod.

"Oversight's pretty involved. I did what I could to set the record straight."

Bozer's ear popped. "No toolmarks on the front entrance."

Cage snorted. "Should I be worried?"

Bozer glanced at Jack in time to see a dark expression cross his face, but then it was gone.

"Eh. You know Oversight," was all he said.

She glanced down, then seemed to remember that he and Riley were there, because she turned back towards them. "Glad to see you both up and around."

A pop. "No toolmarks on the rear alley."

"Yeah, you too," Bozer said, and he meant it. Then he cocked an eyebrow. "So, you up for a burger?"

She looked at him curiously, and then her eyes slid past him, to where the clock declared it was just past eleven am. Officially lunchtime. Bozer just gave her a knowing smile.

"We've been cooped up too long and the catering on four is what Jack calls 'hoity-toity'," he explained. "I called up Mr. Lind and asked him to make us up something special. Was going to go pick 'em up, do you have time?" He cut it off before he could say, before you go to your debrief of doom?

She gave him a slow blink. "Thank you, Bozer, but I think I'll pass. Not much appetite right now."

That could mean a lot of things, and Bozer tried to give her a bracing smile. "It'll be okay, Cage." Matty said she wasn't going to let Oversight blame Cage, though he still hadn't pieced out how she was going to save herself. "We got your back."

"Have you thought about that place on Venice, Council Thrift? I know he's gotten some Betabrand shirts there secondhand, and there's a rental apartment above it." Samantha's eyes were back on the map, like nothing had happened.

". . . no," Riley said, looking up at the map also. "We eliminated places we thought were too public, but that's not a bad idea." She started typing, dispatching one of the agents in the city. "Thanks."

Samantha gave her a quick smile. "Let me know if I can help," she said, and then gave Jack another glance, and walked around him, up the corridor to the front of the TOC.

Bozer very carefully didn't look at Riley. He was pretty sure that had meant exactly what he thought it had meant. That Cage was on to them – in no small part due to him – and was offering to assist.

Riley gave Jack a fistbump, and then he sighed shallowly, and reached up and rubbed his ear thoughtfully, staring at the map.

"I miss anything?" he asked mildly, once the earwig was in place.

Riley indicated the board, which Jack turned to, and John decided that question was directed at him. "Boze got a lead on Mac. We're at the Boys and Girls club on Pasadena, got evidence of a picked lock. Door's rigged. Padlock's broken, it's on just for show."

Jack digested all of that without changing expression. "Boze, did you say burgers?"

He nodded solemnly. "Only the best burger you'll ever put in your mouth. If you agree, I think I can get Mr. Lind to cater us a lunch here. Mac loves 'em, would be a great welcome back."

"We'll have to find him first," Jack muttered grimly. He left the cube farm, walking up to one of the analysts, and she looked up at him, then nodded. He said something, and her rate of nodding increased. He patted her shoulder, then walked back towards them.

"Lisa says she'll keep us in the loop."

"That's Liz," Riley corrected him cheerfully, closing her laptop. "And yes, you've met her before, like a lot."

"Really?" Jack took the laptop from Riley, giving her space to get on her feet. "I don't think she's old enough to drive."

"Speaking of which, I'll do the driving," Bozer said firmly. "You're both too messed up, and we're about to run amok of LA lunch traffic."

Jack and Riley both defended their driving records as they walked out the back exit of the TOC, and continued all the way to the parking garage. Bozer bypassed all the fleet cars – GPS enabled fleet cars – and they piled into his personal wheels, Riley in the front where she had more space for the sling.

"Okay-"

She put her left hand on his arm, then dug in her bag, pulling out a small device. She clicked it on, and his earbud hissed. Jack also made a face, and Riley actually pulled hers out, listening for a second.

"Okay, we're clean," she declared, and put the earwig back in.

"Saito, John, sitrep."

"Waiting on you, Jack. Figure if he's in there, he'll want to see a friendly face."

Behind him, Jack was uncharacteristically silent, and Bozer glanced at him in the rear view mirror as he pulled the car out of the garage and along the picturesque Phoenix Foundation drive.

Jack didn't look at him. "Copy. We'll send in Boze and Riley. Either of you have any formal experience?"

There was a brief pause, and Bozer glanced at Riley, wondering if he was supposed to know what that meant. Fortunately, Saito replied. "Bomb disposal, no. Basic boobytraps, sure."

Jack leaned forward from the backseat. "Boze, how long till we get there?"

He glanced at the clock. "About fifteen, maybe twenty minutes?"

"That enough time?"

There was a pause. "Jack, I'd rather he heard their voices before we just bust in. We don't know what his headspace is like, and I'm not wearing a vest."

Bozer frowned, and rolled down his window, badging out of the gate. He waited till the window was back up before he replied. "Look, Mac's not going to make a _bomb_ or shoot a _gun_ next to a school full of kids. I don't care _what_ his headspace is like."

Jack made a low noise in his throat. "I'm inclined to agree with Boze, but I see your point. Hold a perimeter."

There was a brief pause. "Copy."

Bozer glared at Jack in the rear view mirror as he pulled out onto the main street. "Jack-"

The older agent had leaned back in the seat, and was staring out the window. "Boze, relax. They'll hold a perimeter, worse case Mac rabbits and they tail him. It'll be fine."

He still wanted to protest, even knowing that Saito and John weren't going to shoot Mac. The fact that they even thought it was a _possibility_ pissed him off. The worst that would happen is that there'd be a cannister of tear gas or something on the door, and he'd burst through it and run, and maybe legitimately get away.

"Hey, Riley, can you watch that area on satellite without everyone else knowin'?"

She snorted. "Already did. If he runs, I'll see him."

His earbud popped. "All quiet here, but when the bell rings, there's gonna be kids."

Bozer exchanged a glance with Riley. On the off chance that any of the door boobytraps were flashy –

But they wouldn't be. The whole point was to hide, not to give himself away.

"Acknowledged," Jack replied. He didn't ask for an ETA again, but Bozer put a little more pressure on the accelerator it as a hole opened up in traffic.

The rest of the drive was spent in quiet worry, on all their parts. Riley was checking in with the TOC almost compulsively, trying to confirm that they hadn't been found out. Jack was quiet, which seemed super weird. Bozer was glad he was driving, it was a little bit of a distraction at least, and they made pretty good time. It _was_ near a school, and on Pasadena, so it took him a little while to find a place to park that wouldn't get him an instant ticket.

"Jesus, Boze, just pick a spot-"

He pulled up crazy close to another guy's bumper, half in and half out of a parking zone, and called it good enough. It was almost exactly across from an old brick building, two stories, with peeling paint that declared it a Boys and Girls Club.

And now that he saw it, instead of a bird's eye view map, he remembered it. "Yeah, I remember Mac saying he'd worked at one these, when shop class would go volunteer with Habitat for Humanity."

There didn't seem to be too many kids milling around, which Bozer took to mean the next bell would be 11:30. There were, however, a couple people hanging on the corner – probably parents keeping the kids from escaping school campus for lunch. Depending on where Saito and John were –

Of course, he didn't see either one of them.

"How's that recon going?" Jack asked, as they three jogged across the street during a break in traffic.

"Three entrances, still quiet. Side entrance will have the least traffic."

Jack nodded, and they crossed in front of the building. The windows were high on the wall, almost like a gymnasium. There was no way to look inside. As they came around the corner they saw Saito leaning casually on the wall, cellphone to his ear. About ten feet away, Bozer saw the door in question.

"Tunne?"

The briefest of pauses. "Mobile on Pasadena. I've got the front and north side covered."

Jack took the lead, passing Saito without acknowledging him, and he didn't do much besides watch them go by. He was dressed in jeans and a distressed tee, looking for all the world like a guy who'd retreated from the traffic to get an earful from his girl.

And he would provide partial cover for their breaking and entering.

Bozer watched as Jack approached the door, his eyes tracing the doorframe. There was a padlock, above the actual door lock, and Jack reached out and grabbed it. It opened easily in his hand, and he flipped back the metal bar and hung it back on the door. He tried the knob, surprised to find that it turned, and then he gave it an extremely gentle tug.

The metal hinges barked a sharp protest, and Jack stopped immediately.

"Just noise?"

"I stopped after doing what you did," Saito replied. "Didn't see any wires."

"Yeah, me neither."

Jack gave the door another tug, and got the same, ear-splitting grind of metal. The door opened just enough to see a little bit of darkness on the other side, but then it stopped, and it seemed like Jack couldn't physically move it any further.

He reached into his pocket, pulling a small tac light free, and he shone it into the gap. Then he frowned, and clicked it off.

"Saito, you bring a knife?"

Riley took the cue, walking over to the other agent unhurriedly. He nodded at her, like he knew her, and casually slapped a twelve inch long knife, in a black canvas sheath, into her hand. Bozer had absolutely no idea where Saito had been hiding it.

Riley brought it back, and Jack accepted it, pulling it free of the sheath and slipping the blade into the gap. He tapped a few things, listening, and then he put some muscle into it, slicing through several tough somethings. At the last one, the door jerked further open, with more screeching, and Jack winced and re-sheathed the knife.

Then Jack's eyes were on him, and he motioned towards the door.

Bozer hesitated, then approached the opening. It was still too small to walk through, but he knew what Jack wanted him to do.

He swallowed. "Hey, Mac?"

There was a faint echo, so whatever was back there was wide open, but nothing sounded like a voice.

"Mac, you in there?" He raised his voice a little. "Mac!"

Nothing.

He pulled away from the door, shrugging, and Jack glanced around them, in both directions. Then he yanked the door wide open.

Sunlight poured into a hallway, with several doors facing them. There were several strips of something thick and black on the floor, that kind of looked like a computer cord. That was what Jack had hacked through.

The walls of the offices didn't go all the way to the ceiling, which was quite tall, and there was enough light coming in those high windows to see, more or less. Jack stepped in first, glancing down the corridor, and then he clicked the tac light on, looking at the floor.

With his left hand, he made a 'keep going' gesture.

"Hey, Mac!" Bozer let Jack range a few feet ahead of him, but he stopped, and opened every door he came to. A woman's locker room. A men's locker room, which was pretty damn dark. Some kinda utility closet.

"Mac, it's Bozer! And Riley's here too."

"Hey Mac," she called, just a few steps behind him. "We're comin' in, cool?"

Jack walked the length of the hallway, almost to the end, before he held up his hand in a fist, and then stiffly crouched. He ran the light along something, and Bozer could see the thread.

It was a tripwire.

Jack ran the light along it, finding a hole in the wall, and Bozer backed up a step, and opened the door to the office that was through that wall. Inside, he could see the glow from Jack's tac light, and he carefully crept into the room, trying to make out –

A coffee can, balanced precariously on the edge of a metal shelf. Bozer reached in, and felt a bunch of hard, small balls. He picked one up and held it high enough to catch some of the light coming in from above.

It was an old rusty iron nut.

Sound. If the coffee can fell, it would make a loud noise.

"Mac . . ." He tossed the nut back into the coffee can. "Come on, man. You used this one in the treehouse. Steve fell for it like half a dozen times."

He walked back out the office, signaling that it was okay, and Jack stayed where he was, just at the corner, and motioned them forward. He kept the light on the string, so that Bozer and Riley could both step over it, and Bozer waited for him to do the same. Instead, he waved them forward.

Bozer gave him a look. "Uh . . . you sure?" he whispered.

Jack silently nodded.

Knowing the place was boobytrapped, and now Jack was staying back, didn't make Bozer any happier, so he kept Riley behind him, and shuffled along the narrow hall, where the space opened up into a huge room.

There was enough sunlight in there to see by, and Bozer took in the chairs, an old pinball machine, and a huge boxing ring on the left.

"Hey, Mac, check this out!" Bozer felt a little more confident in the brighter light, making for the boxing ring, and he noticed an extremely symmetrical pile of old papers, balanced on an overturned chair.

It almost made him smile.

Mac used to make all kinds of impromptu alarms back in school. Some of his more intricate experiments took time, and you didn't want the janitor, or worse, the principle coming up on you unannounced. He knew what this one was.

Bait. You were supposed to approach the chair with the perfectly balanced papers, expecting that to be the trap, but the trap would be several feet before it, which would put another thread –

Yep. Attached to the boxing ring.

Bozer walked over to it confidently, plucking up the ball that was all set to roll down an old mop handle and land with a bang in a bucket of glass.

"This brings back memories," he said aloud, almost to himself, and then something crinkled, and he looked up past the boxing ring.

In the far corner of the room, not too far from the rear door, there was a huge pile of aluminum foil. As he watched, it shifted, as if caught in a breeze. There was a ball of something grey sitting on top of it, but that ball moved, and then Bozer finally put together what he was looking at.

He started forward without another thought. "Mac!"

-M-

Well, possible spoilers for the last ep, but it looks like Mac lied when he said he and Jack didn't meet while they were in the Army. The fanfic community nailed it. Or, the writers realized they were sitting on a gold mine. Either way . . . nice work, team.

Also, I'm sorry, I really intended to get further in this chapter, but the characters just wanted to talk and talk. And it's not going to be a quick thing, Mac making up his mind, so I cut it off here, and hopefully you guys can make it till I can get the next chapter posted. Because this one didn't get quite far enough, I need to add one more chapter to my original estimation.


	23. Chapter 23

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

 **Content Warning** – super mild tearjerk warning.

-M-

There was a loud crack, and Mac shivered, and opened his eyes.

No doubt about it now. Every entrance had been tested.

He didn't hear any kids shouting or playing. With all three entrances, now, it was statistically unlikely to be some kind of coincidence, or early La Nina winds. It could be law enforcement following up on a tip, and if so, that would be the end of it. He'd barricaded the windows in the cellar, so there would be no more – or at least any future - unexpected guests via that route, but anyone with a key to the front door could simply walk onto their own property.

This didn't sound like that.

He waited, for the hinges to give up more of their rust armor, but it didn't happen. There was no other sound from the opposite side of the warehouse, no light. No footsteps.

". . . what do you think, Jack?" he whispered.

No one replied.

Not that he needed to see or hear Jack to know what his partner would think. His partner would think it was a full scale assault and that his position in the corner of the largest room was, tactically speaking, colossally stupid.

He should have picked the corner nearest the front door, actually, since that would be the door least likely to be breached - if whoever was out there wasn't law enforcement. But that was also the easiest spot from which to simply catch him when he exited and shove him into a van. This way, he could see any enemy coming, he would get plenty of warning, and he would have time to decide what to do.

Not that he had a lot of options.

Once shock had set in, he knew finding a new hiding place was no longer going to be possible. There was no way he could physically handle himself well enough to blend in with any other pedestrian traffic. He'd barely been able to put up a few improvised alarms. They looked good, they'd make plenty of noise, and they'd give anyone who saw them pause, which gave him a few more precious seconds to get away.

And after he'd done that . . . there was nothing left to do but rest and hope.

And rest was not coming easy.

Mac located his half liter bottle of rehydration solution – the last he'd pre-mixed. The next time he dared a bathroom run, he was going to have to restock. In light of that – and the potential reality that he was about to have company - he'd need more tylenol. He'd placed the duffel against his left hip, mostly under the mylar emergency blanket, and he could access it without having to let any of the heat out.

He took two – the angle of the shadow of the boxing ring post told him it had been at least three hours since the last dose – and almost gagged on them, barely getting them down.

The next trick would be _keeping_ them down.

Mac screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it into an exterior pocket, and let his head rest against the brick wall, waiting for a little relief.

There was no other noise. A couple pedestrians walked by, their voices sounded muffled. Fred the War Cockroach skittered out from under the boxing ring, heading for his favorite stack of cardboard. In the light of day, he was really quite impressively large, and so heavy that Mac could actually hear him as he scurried around.

When he felt better, he was going to catch the damn thing and put some white-out on his back, just to see if he really was the same insect that kept pestering him.

Mac's eyes had just started to droop again when there was another resounding crack. The echo of it seemed to go on unnaturally, like whispers. It cracked again, louder, and Mac tensed, his eyes fixed on the dark corner of the warehouse, above the side door.

When he saw sunlight there, it was time to go.

He leaned forward, straining his ears, but he couldn't make out the whispers. It almost sounded like something was shuffling, already in the warehouse with him –

"Hey, Mac?"

It seemed to be coming from the same area of the warehouse. Mac didn't move.

"Mac, you in there?"

For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why his own hallucination sounded so lost and uncertain.

"Mac!"

He took a breath, considering calling back, but then the hinges screamed, and a bright square of sunlight reflected up to the ceiling of the warehouse.

Mac moved to stand, hissing in pain, and eyed the distance between himself and the nearest exit. He wasn't sure he could take the duffel, in this condition, and he didn't know if there were more of them outside –

"Hey, Mac!"

He heard doors being opened, in sequence, and shadows seemed to be passing across the diffuse sunlight on the ceiling.

_Stay or run. Decide now._

Mac dropped the mylar blanket, leaving it and the duffel behind, and limped along the wall, trying to force cramping muscles to work. It was much harder than it had been even a few hours ago, but he eventually was able to straighten, and he got his hands around the cool bar of the exit door.

"Mac, it's Bozer! And Riley's here too."

He froze stock still, releasing any pressure he'd put on the bar. They knew about Bozer, but . . . he . . . hadn't told them about Riley.

Had he?

"Hey Mac." The voice was a dead ringer. The forced cheerfulness, with the undercurrent of humor and worry. "We're comin' in, cool?"

Oh god. Did they know about Riley?

Mac clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, fighting to keep the tylenol down. He'd given them Jack. They could have Riley by now.

Or it could be nothing. It could be no one. Or students. Or police officers.

Hadn't he seen Riley? Back at the Phoenix? She was in a bed, in Medical. Jack had been snoring away beside her. Someone had told him she'd be there, he'd expected her to be there –

What if it was Riley? Actual Riley?

He hesitated, hands shivering on the door bar, and he shook his head, trying to knock back the pain. It could be Riley. Or it could be a trick.

Mac eased his hands off the door bar, taking a cautious step back.

If it was them, there was no exit. His shadow would be on the other side of that door.

And if it was Riley, well, then he didn't have anything to worry about.

Mac glanced back into the room, in time to hear something metallic rattle. "Mac . . . come on, man. You used this one in the treehouse." There was a quiet snort. "Steve fell for it like half a dozen times."

Nuts and bolts in a coffee can. Bozer had found the tripwire. And he hadn't tripped it.

Mac retreated back to the duffel, dropping into his corner and quietly draping the mylar blanket over himself like a cloak. It was less warm, but it hid his movements, and now it hid the duffel.

He searched it blindly, looking for the mace.

There were footsteps audible, finally, coming from the office corridor, and it didn't take long before a shadow came into view, crossing into the main room. There was still too much detritus between them to make out who it was, but the voice, when it called out again, was so Bozer-like he almost smiled.

"Hey, Mac, check this out!" Clearly he'd found the boxing platform.

There were long, confident steps, and then a hand appeared and snatched up the ball that was attached to the second alarm, preventing it from rolling. The hand held the ball a moment, then tossed it into the air and caught it in a motion Mac must have seen four thousand times.

"This brings back memories," Bozer murmured, and Mac shifted when his searching left hand finally closed on something metal and round.

Bozer's head came up at the sound, picking him out instantly, and Mac wondered if his face was even visible under the hoodie. But Boze lit up immediately, and headed right for him.

"Mac!"

And right behind him was Riley Davis.

There was no doubt it was Bozer, down to the brown tee-shirt and Phoenix badge attached to his belt. He must have come from work –

Well of course he did, it was a school day, he'd heard the bell –

Mac tried to shake the thoughts out of his head. "Stop," he called out, and right on cue, Bozer's strides wavered, then halted altogether.

His roomie stared at him, then glanced down at the floor, throwing his hands out to steady himself. "Oh, crap, what am I about to trip?"

". . . no, it's . . ." Nothing, actually, the only thing he could have done with the stack of folding chairs and the old bucket would have been potentially injured whoever tripped it, and he wasn't willing to go that far. "Just, stay back."

The hands stayed out, but this time they raised a little, more towards him. Mac was absurdly reminded of Chris Pratt trying to calm velociraptors in Jurassic World.

"Oh . . . okay, dude. It's cool. Uh . . ." Bozer bit his bottom lip. ". . . you okay?"

Riley came up abreast of Boze. She was moving stiffly, but smiling in relief, and Mac picked out the dark sling cradling her right arm.

He'd seen her in a sling before. A white one. But the memory was slippery, he couldn't focus on it.

". . . wow," Riley commented, then pressed her lips together, like she hadn't meant that to slip out. "Okay. Mac . . . you know it's like eighty-five degrees in here, right?"

Probably. But that didn't really matter. The mylar was only reflecting back heat that was escaping the hoodie, and he had it zipped up, so the coefficient of –

"Hey." Her voice was much softer. "Mac . . . you know who we are, right?"

He looked between the two of them. Really looked. Bozer looked like he had for the past few days. Worried. Puffy eyed. He knew his friend well, his memory was almost eidetic. There was no way for him to tell whether this Bozer was real or not.

But Riley . . . he hadn't been seeing or hearing her. She was new, and he watched her carefully as she shifted, taking just one step past Bozer.

Her neck was wrapped, but higher than he would have expected for shoulder support, which indicated a separate injury. There was a laptop tucked under her left arm, with the lime green USB fob she used as a secondary authentication method for her gear. Her nails were electric blue, but chipped, and he was pretty sure he recognized the ripped white tee, he'd seen her wear it before.

He watched her eyes, which were shifting as she tried to take him in, and he fingered the metal cannister for a second, under the mylar. Real or not, he could incapacitate them without hurting them.

". . . I know who you look like," he finally answered.

It didn't seem to be what she wanted to hear, but she gave him an encouraging smile, then nodded very awkwardly, and winced a little. "Cool, just checking. Uh . . . so . . . how you feeling? Besides cold?"

She took another step, glancing around, and Mac did a quick calculation of how long it would take him to deploy the mace in his hand and the ideal distance where he wouldn't be affected by the amount that escaped as strictly aerosol. Then he drew the needed perimeter mentally on the floor.

They were still a couple feet past it. Which was good enough for him.

"Stay back," he repeated, a little more sharply, and she obediently stopped, and frowned.

"Okay, okay. It's just . . . you look miserable, dude. Can we help?"

Help. Yes. "I need you to leave."

And he knew that wasn't going to happen. If these were actual people, he was as good as caught. The only thing he could do now was stall, and hope that he was clear-headed enough to make the right decision. Wait for one of them to make a mistake.

". . . yeeeaaaaaah." It was Bozer, and Mac would know that tone anywhere. "There's just, one little hitch with that-"

Riley turned to Bozer in agreement. "Oh, yeah. You're right."

He nodded at her, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "You know, that hitch where he's our friend, and we're not gonna leave him here alone to suffer all by himself?"

"That's the one," Riley confirmed, and then she looked around the place again, almost ignoring him completely. "Chairs. Score."

"I got it, girl." Bozer headed for the rack of folding chairs, giving Mac a wide berth, and he remained silent, watching them. Boze pulled three off, testing each one, and every time he did, there was something almost wooden about the way he bent.

Injured. He was injured. He'd said that. That he wouldn't tease them about cracked ribs anymore. And that Riley was banged up.

He found three that he could live with, carrying them over to Fred's preferred stack of cardboard boxes. Riley held the spares while Boze unfolded them, one more easily than the others, and she claimed one immediately, adjusting her sling like a pro before putting her laptop on the boxes.

Mac almost opened his mouth to warn her, but decided it would sound a little weird. Only a crazy person would start naming the indigenous insects, and all that.

Bozer took the second chair, turning it so he was facing Mac. He leaned back cautiously, then started to trust the old aluminum, and relaxed a little.

"So . . . what'd we miss?"

Mac just stared at him. He knew how stubborn Wilt was, and unless Riley broke it up, they were headed right for the silent treatment. Sure enough, Bozer crossed his legs at the ankle and settled in to wait.

Again, Mac found himself squashing a small smile, and he let his head fall back against the wall, mutely watching them.

Although . . . "Who else is here?" It wasn't like they'd be allowed to play this game all day.

Wilt wasn't expecting the question, and he hesitated, which told Mac everything he needed to know. Bozer and Riley had been sent in as the friendly faces, to put him at ease. He'd been right; there was someone outside the rear exit, and probably one at the front too.

"Not just us," his roomie admitted after a moment. "There's a couple agents outside. Just to make sure nobody bugs us." Riley was typing away, not looking at Bozer at all, but some kind of communication passed between the two of them, and Mac sharpened his attention and his voice.

" . . . who else."

Bozer uncrossed his ankles. "Well . . . there's one other guy, but . . . he's not sure you wanna see him."

Something about the way Wilt said it made Mac's blood run cold, and he tightened his grip on the mace.

His shadow.

"And if anyone asked my opinion, which they _didn't_ ," he added accusatorily, "I'd say crossing that bridge now instead of later is going to save everyone a lot of angst."

Riley had stopped typing, and gave Bozer a sideways look. Mac couldn't tell if she disapproved or not; her expression was troubled, maybe worried, but not angry. Motion behind her drew his eye, and Mac tensed as another figure stepped out of the corridor, and started to cross the room towards them.

The figure walked around the boxing ring unhurriedly, and Mac found himself staring at –

At Jack.

For a moment, he assumed it was _his_ Jack, because he was feeling threatened, because he knew he was in trouble. Bozer and Riley didn't react to his presence in any way, or follow Mac's gaze to see what was behind them. Jack had crossed most of the way to the semicircle of chairs before it sunk in.

His stride was off. His footsteps were uneven. More importantly, the way he was carrying himself was –

Was wrong.

-M-

Jack didn't make any sudden moves, didn't say anything, didn't do anything except walk up behind Riley. But something changed.

He saw it in his partner's eyes.

Mac had given himself a pretty wide DMZ, they were about twenty feet away but close enough to see he was sweating, and that he was either shivering or straight-up shaking. They could make out his expression, generally, but not the details.

This wasn't seeing his eyes change as much as feeling 'em. Jack stopped dead in his tracks, looking for any tells under the silver mylar blanket that was spread around the kid like a tee-pee.

Corners, there. He had a bag or some other container under there with him, on his left. The way his shoulder was canted, he'd pulled up his left hand, and was holding it fixed.

He had something in that hand.

It could be anything, hell, a string connected to a pulley connected to a sandbag about to drop out of the ceiling on him. He didn't want to find out, so he just stopped, and he waited.

Mac glared at him, almost defiantly. ". . . I'm not going back."

He was pretty sure Mac wasn't referring to the Phoenix. "Fine with me," he replied easily. "I'm not here to take you anywhere, man."

When he was sure everyone had had time to take a breath, Jack took the last two steps and pulled the third chair back with a noisy rattle, settling into as smoothly as he could. He crossed his arms, high on his chest, so Mac could see his hands.

He never lost his eyes. Mac watched him like a hawk.

"You know . . . that's the second time you've given me that look. I do somethin' to deserve it?"

This was not the look you gave your dead partner come back to life. It sure as hell wasn't the look Mac had given Nikki after her resurrection. This wasn't even disbelief.

The kid was scared.

Of him.

Mac's adam's apple bobbed, but it was a long moment before he replied. ". . . you're wrong," he said quietly.

Jack chuckled, more to put Riley and Bozer at ease than because it was funny. "Oh, brother, you wanna talk about how wrong I am, we're gonna be here all day. Any particular thing that's got you riled up, or is it just the whole package?"

"Mac . . . " Riley's tone was downright gentle. "It's okay. It's really him."

"No, it isn't." Mac's voice was hard.

They'd had a few conversations like this, over the years. Where Mac dug in his heels and flatly refused to budge. Not like with the Ewoks wanting to eat Luke and Han – and he was still wrong about that - but important things. Philosophical differences, Mac called them.

They tended to agreed to disagree. Jack was pretty sure that wasn't an option this time.

Matty had been right, to keep him away from Mac. Somehow, he'd hurt his partner. Cut him to the bone to make him look like that. And right now, he was totally miserable on top of it. Doc's assessment of how he'd be wasn't far off the mark.

"Yeah, man, I know. It's hard to believe." Bozer's voice was a little self deprecating. "I didn't. Not at first. Sorry, Riley," he added, with an apologetic look. "I kinda thought you were chasin' shadows."

Jack looked away from Mac, to Riles, to see that the fingers of her left hand were still hovering over the keys, but not tapping. ". . . I knew," she admitted. "It's okay, Boze," she added, giving him a sad smile. "I get it. You, Matty, even Cage." Her dark eyes shifted his way, and the smile grew fond. "But you didn't give up on me, old man. Hadda repay the favor."

It made his heart ache in his chest, just a little, and he couldn't return her smile. "Riles . . . I saw the footage."

Her eyes widened a little, and Bozer even turned his way, but Jack didn't take his eyes off Riley. Now wasn't the time, but they were gonna have to talk about that. In fact -

. . . in fact . . .

Facts were exactly what they needed.

Jack blinked, then nodded his head at her laptop. "Can you pull it up?"

She opened her mouth, then gave him a strange look. ". . . uh, yeah, but –"

"Do it."

She hesitated for a second, but he gave her a reassuring nod, and she started tapping away. Mac had been silent, observing the conversation, but Jack could see in his peripheral vision that his partner was still watching him carefully.

What Mac needed were facts. Then he could decide for himself what was real and what wasn't.

Bozer seemed to be following along a little better than Riley, but it was clear he didn't agree. "Jack, I'm not so sure that's a good idea –"

"It was enlightening," he cut the younger man off.

Bozer turned and looked at him, really looked at him. "It was _awful_ ," he corrected, in a low voice, "and if I could unsee it, I would."

Jack gave him a humorless smile. "Right there with ya, dude."

Wilt chewed on that for a moment, and Riley turned her laptop a little, so he could see the screen. Jack shook his head.

"Show Mac."

Again, he watched his partner in his peripheral vision, and his head came up a little. Riley glanced over the laptop at Mac. "Uh . . . it's kinda a small screen. Can I -"

"I don't want to see it."

Jack looked back to Mac, considering what he was doing. Mac hadn't been locked in a hotbox, so he'd probably been thinking that he'd been the only one actually in a position to do anything about what happened to the Chevaliers. Their deaths would be hanging over his head just as heavy as Jack's, maybe more so. And he knew the kid was in no condition to deal with that right now.

But they weren't going to get anywhere with him until he started to trust them. Boze had been right. If they'd gotten him out of the warehouse, even back to Phoenix, the second his partner had clapped eyes on him, he'd think – whatever the hell he was thinkin' now.

And, as an added bonus, he might get a few details that could help them win the case Oversight was trying to build against Mac.

"You need to," Jack told him.

Something very close to hatred passed across Mac's face, and Riley faltered under his glare. Beside him, Bozer fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.

Jack wasn't fazed. "Show him, Riley."

She hesitated, then stood, slowly picked up the laptop, and crossed into the open space between them.

Mac closed his eyes in annoyance, clearly preparing to tell her to back off, so Jack shifted in his chair. The eyes popped open and were on him instantly, and Jack intentionally kept Mac's attention as Riley cautiously approached. He had absolutely no concerns that Mac was gonna do anything to her, and sure enough, he didn't even acknowledge her until she was only a few steps away.

Jack could hear the reluctance in her voice. "This . . . uh . . . this is hard to watch."

"He knows, Riles. He was there."

Mac's eyes again came back to his, and Jack tried to keep his expression neutral. It was a hell of a lot harder than it should have been.

She crouched, and set the laptop down where he could see it, then made an apologetic noise and shuffled to the other side of it, so that she could what she was doing. She was only a few feet away, but her injured right side was to Mac, so he knew she couldn't touch him. Oddly, he didn't seem to mind her proximity at all. He also didn't look at the laptop, even after she apparently started the footage.

That was fine. Jack remembered it well enough to narrate. "It picks up when Aydin hauled you out of that tent."

Something changed, again, in Mac's eyes. It was almost resignation.

Jack gave him a grin. "Then he got you your closeup, and photobombed it. I'm sure Matty loved that."

Beside Mac, Riley made a choked sound. Bozer was a little less subtle. "You have no idea."

Jack glanced at him in surprise. "Were you actually there?"

The younger man rounded on him like he's just insulted his pastrami. "Of course I was there! What the hell kinda question is that?! You and Mac both go missing on the most straight-forward mission you've had in, like, a year –" He crossed his own arms defensively. "You think I'd just sit around downstairs playing scrabble with Sparky?"

Jack flashed him a whoops look, and Bozer frowned at him. "Though now that you mention it, I wish I hadn't been." He glanced back at the laptop, and Jack followed his gaze to find that Mac was now watching the footage, despite himself. "I get that living it was worse, but even watching it . . ."

Riley turned away from the screen, so they must be to the part where the Chevaliers were executed.

He'd rather have been watching silent footage of it than have listened to it from his sweatbox.

Mac, too, turned away, from both the screen and Riley, and Jack saw him swallow.

"In case you're wondering, yeah, they got me too."

Mac didn't look back at him, or the laptop. "I know." It was . . . gentler than his expression would have indicated, but still hard. "I was there."

"Yeah, bud. I know. I heard you."

Mac glanced up at him. Jack sighed, as deeply as his position would let him. "I'm sorry, Mac. I know what that looked like. I didn't really get it, not till this morning, but . . . you have every reason to think I bought the farm, brother. Hell, after watchin' that-" and he waved a hand at the laptop – " _I_ don't even believe I'm sittin' here."

The anger slid back into place in Mac's eyes.

Which meant that something else had been there, for just a split second.

"I'd been trying to get the hinges off that damn thing for hours. But they had somebody on us, and it wasn't exactly quiet work." He snorted. "I was just glad to hear your voice, man. Just glad you weren't in the box next door."

He studied the cardboard box table Riley had vacated, only just noticing what she'd been using. "I jammed myself up into the right side, figured they were shooting straight up the middle." He gestured again, at the box tower, exactly the way they'd done it. "Got hit with all four slugs. Couldn't fuckin' believe it. Came to when I got a gasoline shower."

He wasn't sure where the footage was, at this point, but neither Mac nor Riley were watching it.

". . . there were two gunshots. Aydin's guy got on the radio, so I figured it was you, but . . ." He looked back at Mac, searching his face. "What the hell was that?"

Mac stared at him, for so long that he didn't think the kid was gonna tell him, and then shook his head. He didn't say anything, and Jack was about to ask him again, when Mac glanced back at the laptop. The mylar crinkled, and then Mac's left hand reached out – empty, he'd released whatever he was holding – and tapped the touchpad. Riley let him do what he wanted, her expression curious, and then her head came back up as she apparently realized what it was he was looking for.

"Three." Mac's voice was quiet. "There were three. One was inside the cabin, at this angle it would have been muffled from your position."

"The cabin?" The helicopter. Right. Probably discharged when he disarmed whoever the hell he'd been fighting with.

". . . first time was getting out of the zipties." His voice was stilted, as if someone else was forcing him to say the words. "The other two punctured the hydraulic hose on the pitch control rod."

Jack visualized the rotor shaft of a Huey, and he couldn't help a startled laugh. "No way, really?"

The ghost of a smile touched Mac's lips. "Yeah. Thought you'd . . ." But then it trailed off, and the smile was gone like it'd never been.

"Damn, partner, that is some sharp shootin'," he declared, shaking his head. Then he chuckled again. "Well, that'd definitely take her down."

"Wait." Bozer held up a hand. "You did that . . . with bullets? Not tied to a stick or something'? Like, fired out of an actual gun?"

Mac's eyes flickered, and Jack answered for him. "He went through Basic, Boze, like everyone else in the Army. Didn't have a degree, so it wasn't like he got bumped straight to officer."

Bozer simpered. "I know that, Jack, I just –" He searched for the words. "Guess desperate times and all that."

They were all quiet a moment, and then Riley, who was still crouched by Mac, indicated the laptop. "You need this, or . . ."

He glanced at the laptop again, then gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

She picked it up and stood, favoring her shoulder, and Jack didn't miss the way Mac watched her. He was probably trying to figure out where the injury was. See if what they told him matched up with what he could see with his own eyes.

Good. They could do that.

"Well, those two shots scared ten years outta me," Jack admitted, and the smile drained off his face. "Was sure you'd pulled some fool stunt and someone had taken a piece outta you."

". . . that's why you went to the clearing," Bozer murmured, with dawning comprehension. "We wondered why you didn't go after the helicopter."

Jack thought about that a second. "Yeah, I guess that didn't make much sense from your point of view. I was afraid I'd find him in the same pickle I was." He jerked his chin at Mac.

"But . . . why didn't you head that way when you heard the crash?"

Jack had been wondering the same damn thing all morning. ". . . I never heard the crash, man. Didn't see the smoke either." He'd been so focused on just getting one foot in front of the other, and not falling down –

If he had, and had managed to actually find it, they'd have just shot him again. There was no way he could have taken on those guys, injured in a crash or not. If Mac had been in any condition to escape, he would have done it on his own.

Once he got locked up in that box, there was nothing he coulda done different that would have resulted in them getting away.

"I don't think that crash was really all that loud." Riley had pulled up the footage, of which they really didn't have much. "I mean, I'm sure it sucked being _in_ it, but there was no fireball, no explosion."

" . . . we didn't have enough altitude," Mac told her dully. Again, like someone else was making him say the words. "Canopy slowed the helo. Not my best crash," he added, almost to himself.

"Hey," Bozer snapped. "I'm glad it wasn't your best crash, dude, because you were _in_ it."

Mac shot him a completely unguarded apologetic look, and Bozer frowned at him.

"Anyway. So _this_ idiot," and he indicated Jack, "walks over to the clearing, apparently looking for your sorry ass, and then he decides to hike all over the damn park instead of just sittin' still and waiting for the first responders."

Jack gave Boze a mild look. "For your information, I didn't think anybody was comin', and anybody that did sure as hell wasn't gonna be a friendly." He distinctly remembered making the decision to move.

After he'd passed out for hours and no first responders had shown up.

Jack wondered if that was a pertinent detail.

"Jack, the Turkish Army was there before nightfall."

"Boze, I was an American agent, shot all to hell by an enemy of the state who just tried to set the damn forest on fire. That was not where I wanted to be."

Boze scoffed. "Yeah, so you wandered into the middle of a national park. Tons of hospitals in there."

Jack uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, glaring. "Hey, man, by the time I came back around there was nobody for miles. I found a road and I followed it, and it's a damn good thing I did!"

"If you'd just stayed put, we'd have found you!" Jack couldn't figure out why Boze was harping on it, until the younger man broke off, shaking his head. "We'd have gotten you back the next morning, Jack. We wouldn't have spent all that time thinkin' –"

And Bozer wasn't talking about himself.

He was talking about Riley. Riley wouldn't have spent all that time thinking he was dead.

Jack slumped back in the chair, for just a second forgetting that Mac was even there, silent in the corner. ". . . yeah. Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I really am."

For a while, no one spoke. Riley finally took a deep breath, and then she pushed the laptop away. "I know you are, Jack. And I meant to tell you earlier, but you were in and out so fast this morning, I didn't get a chance." She rotated the laptop so that Jack could see the screen. "I did that thing you asked."

He stared at her blankly, then looked at the monitor. It was a traffic intersection, and the words on the pavement were clearly not English. There was an old white Volkswagon, and a produce truck –

Jack stared at it a long moment. Not that he could tell if it was the right one, he'd been inside the damn thing, never actually saw it from that angle –

Riley helped him out by clicking to another photo, of a spry little man in an aviator's cap hopping out of the driver's side door.

He felt a grin spread across his face. "That's Goral, all right. Where'd you find him?"

"In Greece." Her expression told him exactly how she felt about that. "Turns out, if we'd just stayed there another couple days, he'd have come to us."

Jack snorted. "It's gonna be a long time before I set foot in that country again."

"Yeah, you and me both," Bozer agreed. Then he seemed to remember why they were talking about it in the first place, and focused back on Mac.

"So, some gypsies –"

"Roma."

"Wandering opium dealers," Boze clarified, daring Jack to interrupt him again, "saw a flare Jack sent up, and took him with them. We didn't know that, the only thing _we_ knew was that nobody could find his body. Riley here figured someone would take him to a doctor, so she did her thing. Didn't find anything for almost two weeks."

Jack was about to take Bozer to task for leaving out _how_ Riley had done her thing, when Mac spoke.

"What's today's date?"

"Tuesday, August 28th," Riley replied readily, before Jack could do more than consult his watch.

She had the laptop. Cheater.

Mac's gaze dropped to the floor, apparently in thought, and Bozer waited until Mac indicated that he was listening again, or at the very least looking at them again.

"You were gone a long time, man," he said quietly.

He shook his head. "How did you know?"

No one followed him, so Jack cleared his throat. "Know what?"

". . . the flare." It wasn't quite accusatory, but it was close. "How did you know to signal Roma with a flare?"

Jack felt his eyebrows shoot up. "Hell, Mac, I didn't. Are you kidding? I found a ranger's station – and if you thought national parks in the good ol' US of A were underfunded, then you and me are going back to that shithole, I'm here to tell you everything in that sad excuse of a hut was useless. Flare gun was the only damn thing in there." Once he'd figured out it was a flare gun, and not a rubber ducky.

Jack chuckled at the memory, and shook his head at Mac. "Only reason I even fired that thing was you. Yeah," he insisted, when Mac didn't respond. "Could hear your voice, tellin' me exactly what to do, that it'd be worth it." And Mac hadn't been the only ghost in that hut. ". . . I was fadin' fast, man. Never shoulda made it long enough for Goral to find me."

He took a breath, not surprised to see that Bozer and Riley were staring at him as intently as Mac. He laughed a little; it was kinda embarrassing. "Right when I was about to throw in the towel, _he_ walked in. My dad," Jack clarified, and tried to swallow the waver in his voice. "We just sat and talked, musta been half an hour. I told him – well, you know what I tell him," and Mac did, he'd walked in on them chatting at the cemetery more than a few times, "and then he said he had to go. I, uh . . . I kinda thought I'd be goin' with him."

That was harder to admit than he thought it'd be.

"But as soon as he was out the door, this gypsy walks in. Goral." Jack made a face, and quickly wiped his eyes. Enough of that. "Next thing I knew, it was a couple days later and I was . . . yeah, man. Let's just say that was not fun, and leave it there."

He shook his head, scrubbing his face again, just in case, and when he refocused his eyes, all three of them were still staring at him.

" . . . what?" He knew damn well what, but someone had to lighten the mood, and he hadn't thought to bring _Moonlighting_. "Look, I'm here to tell you, opium ain't all it's cracked up to be. And I don't even wanna _know_ what was in the stuff that smelled like feet."

". . . valerian."

Jack gave Mac a long look. "Dude. Is there _anything_ you don't know?"

He almost looked like he was tempted to reply. Almost. But again, the wall slammed down, and Jack resisted the urge to go over and shake that kid till his teeth rattled.

It probably wouldn't help. Jack turned back to Riley, who had suddenly found the laptop super interesting. "That photo, how recent was it?"

She toggled back to it. "Uh, seven hours ago. I went ahead and sent the info to Sarah. She and her partner are still in Greece, tying up some loose ends with Dooku."

Jack tried to think of all the ways that could go sideways – in a hurry. "I wish you'd told me before you did that," he started, trying to keep his tone mild, and she gave him a big grin.

"Oh, she offered," Riley informed him cheerfully, and then she toned down the valley girl a little. "And she knows why, Jack. It'll be fine."

Once Sarah had scared the living shit out of Goral, it would be. God, what he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall when Sarah met Mrs. Goral -

Jack cleared his throat. Best not to dwell on that. "Well, thanks, Riles. For tracking them down."

She gave him a nod. "Least I could for the folks who turned my mom's ex into a junkie."

Yeah, okay, that was fair. "I'm telling ya, it's not worth it." He looked back at his partner. "Am I right?"

Mac didn't comment, but again, it looked like he thought about it, for just a moment.

His shivering was less noticeable, which Jack took to be a good sign, but he was still sweating. The temperature in the warehouse was already uncomfortably warm, he could see Bozer's shirt sticking to his back and feel the sweat trickling down his own. Mylar would help Mac regulate his body temp, but it wouldn't prevent him from overheating.

"Hey, Mac, you really need that thing? It's pretty warm in here."

Stubborn blue eyes met his, and Jack held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, dude, just askin'."

"Seriously," Bozer added. "Mac, you're gonna get dehydrated if you keep that up."

The blue eyes hooded further, but then a half liter water bottle filled with something red and translucent appeared as if by magic from beneath the mylar, and Mac took a few swallows. They sounded difficult, but his expression didn't really change, and the bottle disappeared under the silver emergency blanket again.

Mac had quite a bit of space under that thing. And he was clearly taking advantage of it.

Jack filed that away, even as Bozer frowned again. Then he closed his eyes with a sigh. "Damn. We shoulda been back by now."

Jack checked his watch again. It was a little over 12:30.

"Nah. I think Matty'll give us a long lunch, considering." But considering that it didn't look like Mac was ready to come back them just yet, that was a battle they were probably gonna have to fight, sooner or later.

Best way to do that would be get ahead of it.

Jack leaned back a little. "My man, Jay, you guys catch any of that?" Mac knew both John and Saito – but he also knew their specialties, and he knew they were both currently on assignment in Europe. No sense in making him think he was penned in by a tac team. He was on edge enough.

In his ear, there was a quiet pop. "Some. Want us to go on a food run?"

Jack glanced at Riley and Bozer. Bozer shrugged. Riley turned her left hand palm up in a kind of version of a shrug.

He looked over at Mac. "You feel like eating?"

He already knew the answer. If Mac wasn't even sure they were them, he sure as hell wasn't going to accept any food from them. And Jack wasn't going to force the issue; Mac should have plenty still from raiding the safehouse.

"And yeah, we know about the safehouse," he added. "I mean real food. Soup, maybe, since you're pulling a mumooshka over there?"

Mac's expression went flat, but it was Riley who spoke. "I think you mean babushka, Jack."

"Whatever. Soup. Yes or no?"

His partner continued silently staring at him, and Jack gave him a few more seconds. "That's a no. So yeah, Jay, a supply run's not a bad idea." It occurred to him that he hadn't heard the school lunch bell. "How's your position?"

Another pop. "Kids came and went. I'll leave Saito here to hold down the fort. By the way, got a text."

Jack glanced at Riley, who frowned and toggled back to a screen that seemed to be a miniature version of the TOC board. ". . . guys, you're not on roster for another six hours."

A long pause. "Yeah. That may be true, but Weber wanted to know where we are."

Jack thought about that for a second. Ignoring her would make it look like she didn't have control of her agents. Telling her they had a lead would make her locate their phones and send every available agent to the warehouse.

"Tell her you met me, Riley, 'n' Boze for lunch. We're just finishing up."

That'd buy them about an hour, but no more. He glanced at his watch again. No way Cage's debrief was done; he was surprised she'd be texting while sitting in it. Then again, if Oversight was that determined to blame the safehouse attack on Samantha, she was better off sitting pretty and taking notes. She'd take the fight to the bosses after the fact.

"Copy."

Jack stuck a finger in his ear, adjusting the earwig, and didn't bother trying to make Mac feel better about it. He had to expect they'd be on coms. "Got a lotta worried people back at the office, Mac."

As expected, Mac didn't look surprised. His gaze turned thoughtful, and the water bottle reappeared.

Jack sucked in as deep a breath as he could, then let it gust out in a sigh. "Don't know what else to tell you, dude. The Roma patched me up and tried to sell me to the highest bidder. Oh, yeah, I totally picked a gypsy's pocket. I get points for that." He glanced to his right, but neither Bozer nor Riley looked impressed.

"Hey, it's harder than it sounds, and I was chained up. I got it done, right?"

Riley finally gave in. "Yeah. You did. Actually used an iPhone hack I showed you. Guess it's true, you _can_ teach an old dog three year old tricks."

"Damn right." He was still proud of himself for remembering that. "So I called Riles here, and she sent in the cavalry. And here I am."

He watched Mac, for any sign that any of that had changed his mind, and at the very least, he could say his partner looked slightly less hostile. But he didn't look sold. Not by a mile.

Instead, his gaze moved to Bozer. He took another sip from his bottle of red water, and didn't say anything.

Bozer shifted in his chair. "Uh . . . why you lookin' at me? I didn't try to sell him. And we sure as hell wouldn't have paid for him. They were asking half a mil."

Mac leaned back a little, letting his head rest against the wall behind him, and Bozer suddenly smirked, and waggled a finger at him. "Oh, I know what you're doing. You're using me as your human lie detector test, aren't you. Because I'm so bad at it."

It suddenly seemed to occur to him that this was not a compliment. "Well," he continued sourly, "Jack's telling the truth. Hard as it is to believe, he got rescued by gypsies and did actually hack a phone."

"Boze, I am a man of many talents."

Riley made a very unladylike sound, and continued fooling with her laptop.

For a while, a companionable silence descended, and Jack chewed on the things Mac had fixated on. "Mac, how come you know so much about the Roma?"

With his head leaning against the back wall, a little more light was reaching his face, still partially hidden by the hood. His blue eyes had taken on an almost glassy look. His blinks were a little slower. More relaxed.

He didn't answer.

Jack gave him a look. "Come on, man, I'm not asking you for classified intel here." Then he thought about that a second. "Am I?"

Mac just watched him. Jack gave him a good thirty seconds, then shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. But you're missin' a perfectly good opportunity to nerd out on us."

"Naw, Jack, you're asking the wrong question." Bozer stretched his legs out in front of him. "You should be asking, how does Mac know so much about herbs that double as recreational drugs."

Riley glanced between Bozer and Mac. "Boze, out of the two of you, you're the pothead. Hands down."

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but after a second, he gave up. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. "But it wouldn't be smoking. It'd be consumables."

"Oh, pot brownies are the bomb." She sounded wistful. "- not that, you know, I'd ever do that kinda thing, just got out of prison, random drug tests at the new gig, so –"

"Oh yeah, totally, I'm just spitballin'," Bozer agreed quickly.

Jack just shook his head. God, if they knew the things he'd gotten up to in the sandbox –

"Alright, Mac." Might as well get them back on topic. "You ready to buy that I'm actually here, flesh and blood?"

He dropped his eyes to their feet, staring off into space for a minute. But then he surprised Jack, and actually answered. ". . . I don't know."

In his ear, there was a little pop. "Grub's here."

"Thanks, my man. Back alley clear?"

Mac's eyes came back up.

"Yep."

Jack ached to get up, just to get that much closer to him, really get a good look at him, but he knew it'd clam the kid up as fast as if he took a bead on him. And he still wasn't sure Mac was ready to see Saito, or anyone other than them.

But he sure as hell was going to when they left, so they might as well deal with it now. "Boze, care to do the honors?"

"Sure thing." It took him a second to get out of the chair, and Mac watched him closely. Though there was very little movement of the mylar, Jack could tell by the set of his shoulder that he'd picked back up whatever he'd previously been holding in his left hand.

He was sitting under that mylar to hide his movements from them, straight up. Kid put himself into his own sweat box.

Of course, he didn't have any other options. There was nothing stopping them from just walking over there and carting him off. The best he could do was stall them with the threat of a weapon.

That was probably the only reason Mac had taken the damn gun.

Bozer was oblivious to this, he just crossed the space, trying to keep to Mac's specified DMZ, and he looked over the exit door carefully. "Okay, I don't see anything. A paint can's not gonna come swinging outta nowhere if I open this, right?"

Mac gave him a half smile, like everything was normal. ". . . no, Boze. No paint cans."

. . . what in the hell made Bozer so damn special? It went on and off like a lightswitch. Almost like Mac was forgetting, for a few seconds, that anything had happened.

Or he was forgetting to be afraid of them.

"Just checkin'." Boze didn't sound like he believed him, and even glanced up at the ceiling, taking a step back to see around the closest i-beam. When he was satisfied he wasn't about to get creamed, he pushed the door open.

Saito was there, holding out a couple large brown bags. "That'll be $60 plus tip."

"Hey, you went to the Grind House." Bozer clearly approved.

Saito shrugged and passed the bags over. "Why the hell not. That way we've got some evidence for our alibi, and they've got great burgers, man."

"The best. Come by our place sometime and I'll give you the secret recipe."

Saito gave Bozer a fist-bump. "Sure thing, brother." He poked his head into the room, having already figured out exactly where Mac was, and gave him a nod. "Mac."

Mac, on the other hand, did not seem prepared to see Saito. His brow crinkled, and he'd leaned forward. ". . . Akatsutsumi-san?"

Saito's smirk grew. "Konnichiwa, otouto."

Bozer glanced between them. "I . . . can't believe I never thought to ask you what your last name was."

Jack barked a laugh. "His last name _is_ Saito."

Technically.

Bozer cocked his head, not quite buying that. "Your first name is not . . . Akasut-"

"Akatsutsumi," Saito supplied, a little slower. "That's my surname. I go by Saito, it's just easier. Most Americans slaughter my other name, except John, Jack and Mac here."

Bozer reared his head back, then stared openly at Jack.

Jack tried for offended. "Boze, you saw that katana in my living room. You heard me tell the cop I got it on a business trip to Tokyo. Hello."

Bozer looked between them again. "Seriously? That's how you know each other?"

"Yeah." The Japanese agent looked pleasantly puzzled, like he couldn't figure out why Bozer was so surprised. "John Wayne here brought a gun to a knife fight. It didn't end well. For him. Took me and half my special assault team to bail him out."

Jack sat up straighter. "Hey, now, that ain't how I remember it-"

"What memory," Saito shot back. "You put away a gallon of sake that night, easy."

Jack grinned. "Oh. Yeah, that was a good night." Heh. Another story he couldn't tell the kids. "Anyway, thought this guy had potential. Recommended him up to Patty."

"Yep," Saito agreed. "Anyway. Bon appetite. We'll keep the party crashers to a minimum."

"Appreciate ya," Jack replied, and Saito drew back, closing the door firmly as he did so.

Bozer started back towards Riley's tower of cardboard, and Jack tried to gauge Mac's reaction. He hadn't relaxed yet; he was still staring at the door, surprise gone and replaced by wariness.

Damn.

"Sure I can't tempt you?" Bozer tried, offering a bag, and Mac shook his head distractedly. Bozer gave him a couple seconds to change his mind, but he didn't, and Wilt brought the deliciousness back to them. There were half a dozen bottles of water in the bottom of one of the bags, and Jack passed them out, setting the spares aside, in plain view of Mac.

He didn't respond, and he didn't relax.

Bozer had a wrapped burger in his hand, but he just stared at it, then set it regretfully back on the cardboard. "Man, I cannot eat this in front of you, Mac. Come on, dude, isn't there anything we can get you?"

Mac seemed to be staring off into space, but then he focused on Bozer. "He called you brother."

Jack unscrewed the cap of his water. Boze didn't know why that was important, but he did. "Yep."

Mac's eyes flicked to him, calculatingly. "Why."

"Same reason he calls you brother." Jack took a swig of the water. "Boze saved his life."

He let Mac chew on that a second, and took another leisurely drink, before he capped the bottle, and fished a french fry out of one of the bags.

His partner didn't look happy, that he was forcing him to ask. "When."

They were gonna cross that bridge, too, sooner or later. "Buddy, you been gone three weeks. You really think Matty was sittin' on her hands that whole time?"

But Mac was not so easily derailed. "When did Bozer save his life."

Jack leaned back with a sigh. "'Bout what, four days ago? Saito and John went in undercover to one of the colonel's recruitment centers to get us network access, and get a location on you. Boze gave 'em faces."

Mac shook his head. "That's his job, that's –" Then he bit it off, and closed his eyes. Just like he did whenever he made what he considered a stupid mistake. "That's not enough." He dropped his head back to the wall, but Jack didn't think he'd relaxed for even a second. When he opened his eyes again, they were a little less guarded. "What happened to you, Boze? What happened to Riley? How did you find me? Why now?"

. . . there we go.

Jack leaned forward a little, toying with the bottle of water. "Whoa. One at a time, man." This was gonna be a fine line of not lying, and not telling him everything. "Remember when we told you Riley tracked me down, and they brought me back?" Jack nodded to himself, glancing at Riley and Bozer and hoping they'd stay quiet. "Yeah, well, the colonel'd got wind of Goral's little auction too. Mole in the State Department. Long story. We think his guys followed us back to the safehouse."

Riley looked away, back at the laptop, but then she seemed to focus, and she started typing.

"They hit us, Mac." No better or easier way to say that. "Luckily, everyone was wearing a vest. Boze took a couple to the chest, I took a couple to the gut. Cage got hit by shrapnel. She's fine, doesn't have her walking papers yet or she'd be here too."

He glanced back at Mac, to see that he'd leaned off the wall again, his eyes sightlessly searching the floor as he put all that together. "But –" And then he looked up at Riley.

She gave him a grim smile. "Not a gun," was all she said.

Mac's face came up as realization dawned, a gesture Jack'd seen from his partner a hundred times before. Riley pressed her lips together.

"It's good, dude. I'm good." She flipped the laptop around. "This was the guy. You recognize him?"

Jack had to actually stand up to see the screen, and sure enough, she'd pulled up a photo of Major Uglytron.

"His name was Salih Oguzhan. He was a major in the Turkish Army, and a member of the _Bordo_ -"

"- _Bereliler._ Maroon Berets," Mac finished. Then he shook his head. "You were right, Jack."

Jack decided to let that pass. "So you saw him."

Mac nodded, leaning forward and squinting at the laptop. ". . . yeah. He shot me too."

Jack exhaled. "No kiddin'."

Sally Uglytron had tagged every single one of 'em. Sarah'd gone too easy on that son of a bitch.

"Well ain't that a kick in the can." Jack sat back down on the chair, wincing a little as he was reminded of the damage. "Bastard also got into the network. Blew Saito and John's cover, and killed our coms. We left 'em dark in the middle of a recruitment camp right when they were passin' around the photos."

Then, because he deserved it, Jack gave Bozer a solid slap on the back. "But this guy here had given'em new faces that morning. They walked right out the front door, and they brought a cellphone with 'em. Tracked that to the manor, and . . ." He gestured at Mac. "We came and got ya."

His partner's eyes went right back to Boze, who nodded like a lucky cat in a Chinese restaurant window. "It's not that hard, making a Japanese guy look Turkish. Tunne was actually a bigger challenge because of his complexion. He's pale like you, so I hadda use the green base . . ." He trailed off. ". . . I'm sorry it took us so long, man."

Mac sat back a little, some of the mask slipping back on, but he was quiet, and Jack let him mull it over. He'd have more questions, sure, but that should have given him a good base.

He didn't need the details. Not yet.

"And I'm sorry we couldn't give you more time to get used to the idea," Jack added. He honestly didn't know if Mac remembered the extraction at all, but if he did, maybe that was why he was so spooked. "We didn't have the firepower to take down a whole militia, so Matty called in NATO. Us being on the ground in Turkey was kinda sort not sanctioned, still, so we hadda get you outta there before we got caught."

Mac was quiet for a while. "Yeah," he finally said. "That makes sense."

The way he said it, it sounded just like he agreed. And his body language still said hell no.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Beside him, he saw Boze twitch. Jack grinned, and shook his head. "Right on time."

It was a text, they'd all three gotten the same one. "Report."

His ear popped. "I think the gig's up."

". . . yep, looks that way."

Mac's gaze flicked between them, and Jack wasn't surprised to see the walls were right back up. "I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

"Uh . . ." Riley turned the laptop his way. Her mini TOC board had just updated Mac's location. 2635 Pasadena.

"I know, I know." Might as well answer both of 'em at once.

Jack clicked on Matty's icon – a black and white drawing of an angry mustached man in a pointy hat – and put the phone to his left ear.

It actually rang twice before she answered. "Hello, Jack."

He dredged up a grin he didn't feel. "Hello Matty."

"Kind of a long lunch you're taking. With four other agents."

"Five, actually," he corrected, and winked at Mac.

Matty was quiet for a moment. "How is he?"

"Eh." He leaned back in the seat, as much as his stomach would let him, and stared idly at the ceiling. "Coming around to the idea. Hey, do we still have that camping gear in storage, from the Appalachian op?"

"Jack, under no circumstances are you staying there overnight. You're in the middle of the damn city!"

"Yep," he agreed.

Her heard her irritated huff. "So you've neutralized the threat, then?"

He started to laugh. "Oh, that's a good one."

"You know what I mean."

He did. And unfortunately, the answer was no. "We're good right here." She knew damn well that she could set up a nearly invisible perimeter around the building and the worst that would happen would be a nosy PTO parent. They could easily prevent Mac from leaving the building. Even Mac knew it, and Jack wasn't sure Mac was truly, actually there with them at the moment.

". . . Jack, you know I can't authorize that."

Yes. He did. Oversight would lose their minds if they knew she had Mac in hand and they didn't just stuff him in a van and spirit him back to the Phoenix. The argument would be an armed, unstable agent in a civilian area. And whatever other cards she had, there was no justifying this one.

That goddamn gun.

"I'll talk to him. Get that gear packed up, wouldja?" He could almost hear her glare over the phone. "Oh, and a couple decks of cards, and a hundred in singles."

"What's the plan, Jack? Take him to a strip club?"

Now that would be something they'd never done together before –

"I'll have it all taken care of by the time you get here. Just leave it to ol' Jack."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she growled, and then she hung up.

"Nice chatting with ya'," Jack said to the dead line, and then he slipped his phone back into his pocket, and addressed the room.

"New plan. We're spending the night."

Bozer and Riley took it in stride. Mac looked cautious.

Jack gave him a shrug. "I told ya. We didn't come here to take you anywhere. You ain't leaving here until you're good and ready, and not a minute before."

Even he could hear the 'but' in that statement, and Mac's look shifted dangerously close to the one he'd been wearing earlier.

Jack went ahead and got it out of the way. "Yeah. There's a condition. And I think you know what it is." It was damn hard to tell if he was moving under that mylar, and Jack stopped trying. "I'm gonna come over there now. I ain't gonna touch ya. But I need you to give me the gun, Mac."

His partner clenched his jaw, but he didn't say a word.

That was probably as much permission as he was going to get, and Jack took his feet at his usual pace. No need to rush him, but no need to draw it out.

There was no missing the look in his eye. The closer he got, the easier it was to see. The kid's mind was racing, he was hiding it behind an angry, almost defiant look. As soon as Jack hit the invisible perimeter of the DMZ, Mac unclenched his jaw.

"Stop."

Jack held out his hands. "I'm not gonna touch you, man. Promise."

He also didn't stop.

His partner drew himself up. "I said back off."

He shook his head. "No can do, brother."

Jack was about ten feet away before he realized that Mac wasn't shivering. He was shaking.

"Jack, back off!"

He stopped with about five feet between them, and he crouched down as smoothly as he was able.

Mac was as close to panic as he'd ever seen him. Sitting on top of bombs, hell, hanging from a forty foot high tree canopy in a ripped parachute. Even Cairo. He was green and sweating, and his pupils were large and black.

That was fear. Maybe enhanced by the drugs and withdrawal, but not caused by them.

Jack reached up – slowly – and he pulled out his earwig. He flicked it off, then tucked it unhurriedly in the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.

"What's goin' on?" he asked quietly.

Mac's eyes flickered between his, and he took an unsteady breath. He didn't say a word.

"Dude, keep the magazine and the slide. We both know you just want the bullets and mag spring anyway." He tried for a grin, but his partner wasn't having it. The glare was fracturing, it was taking everything Mac had to keep it up.

"Mac . . . what's eatin' ya?" Jack shook his head, slowly. "Look, I know you're not gonna use it. Okay? I know it right here." He patted his chest. "Keep the grenades, keep everything else. But you gotta give me the _gun_ , man. Why the hell'd you take it in the first place?"

The blond swallowed – hard. " . . . if I do this . . . it's over."

Jack opened his mouth, then he shook his head helplessly. "I don't understand. C'mon, Mac, talk to me."

He wasn't gonna use the damn thing. Even if he didn't believe they were real, hell even if he believed Boze was really Colonel Aydin, he'd already proven he wasn't gonna pull the trigger. The gun was a bluff, it was a stalling tactic, but at the end of the day –

It wasn't.

The realization must have shown in his eyes, because Mac turned his face away, towards the wall.

Jack rubbed his cheek for a moment, running his thumbnail over the stubble. ". . . that bad, huh?"

The gun had never been for them. It had never been a bluff, never been a deterrent. Never been a threat.

The gun was for Mac.

Mac tried to take a slow breath. He didn't do a very good job. " . . . I can't go back."

And now Jack finally understood what he meant when he said that.

"Okay," he said softly. His left leg was killing him, but he didn't dare move. "Okay."

"They . . . I _talked_ , Jack. Oh, god, I talked –"

"Alright, man. We'll deal with it-"

Mac shook his head, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "You don't understand-"

"Hey." He dared to move, shifting onto his right knee, half to close some of the distance, half to get off the bulletwound. He didn't touch him – he couldn't see his hands, there was no telling how badly that could end – but he did lean closer, trying to catch and keep those wide blue eyes.

"Dude. They can't touch you. Aydin's in NATO custody, those other fuckers are dead or on the run." Mac tried to look away, but Jack intercepted his gaze. "I talked too, remember? You remember that? I sang like a fuckin' canary." He chuckled, a little unsteadily himself. "I actually sang. Salt'n'Pepa. You remember that?"

Mac looked close to tears, but he sucked in a shuddering breath, and he held it. Then he nodded.

"Yeah, course you do. You were on the other side of that door with an ink pen, and like, Hershey's syrup. You remember what you told me?"

It was clear he did, and just as clear that he dismissed it. Jack said it anyway. "You told me it didn't matter, because they were all going to prison."

Mac shook his head. "It's not the same, Jack, I – I-"

"It's close enough." Jack took a deep, slow breath, hoping the demonstration would get the point across, and Mac gave him a half-hearted glare, but took the hint.

He waited until they'd both had a few seconds. "You're afraid that you're gonna give me that gun, and I'm gonna magically turn into one of them, aren't you."

For a second, his partner struggled with his voice. "It's not magic. It's pharmaceuticals."

Of course. Suddenly semantics were important. "Is that what happened before?"

Mac gave a barely perceptible nod, it was almost lost in the shaking.

"And you can't tell the difference between me and Memorex? I'm hurt, man."

Mac let out a shaky laugh. "N-not always. Sometimes I knew."

That's what he'd meant when he said, you're wrong. "Good. 'Cause dude, I'm me. You're really here. And we're really both scaring the crap out of Riley and Boze right now."

Another breathy laugh. " . . . yeah, probably."

Jack waited until he had Mac's eyes again. "I wasn't there, and I'm sorry. But I'm here now, and I'm not gonna let anyone near you. Okay?"

Mac sucked in his first respectable breath of the conversation, and then he gave another stilted nod.

"Oh, almost forgot." Again, he moved slow, fishing around in his left thigh pocket. "A trade. Fair and square, one tool for another." His hand wrapped around the cool metal, and he tugged it free, and held it out.

Mac's eyes dropped to his hand, and he actually smiled.

"Is that mine?"

"One of 'em. I took it out of your locker when we got back. You were under some dumbass psychic protocol –"

"Psychosis," he corrected automatically, and then his right hand came out from under the mylar, and Jack all but shoved the swiss army knife into his hand.

"Whatever. I figured you'd stay put, but you'd feel better having it on ya. Turns out you didn't really need it."

Mac studied the tool, running his thumb over the white cross. " . . . thanks, Jack."

"Any time." He turned his empty hand over, palm up.

The swiss army knife withdrew into the mylar, which Mac finally let slip open, and Jack was stunned to see the grip of the nine mil in Mac's lap.

He didn't say anything. He picked it up – by the barrel – and very deliberately put the grip in Jack's hand, with the barrel pointed at the wall.

Safety first.

Jack accepted it, ejecting the mag before sliding open the chamber. He caught the expelled bullet, a little afraid the quick movement would startle Mac, but he didn't move, and then Jack thumbed up the catch and pulled off the slide.

The magazine and the slide, he offered back to his partner.

Mac studied them a moment, then shook his head. "I don't need them."

Jack tilted his head to the side. "Yeah, maybe so . . . but you'd feel better havin' 'em."

Mac thought about that, and then he gave him a smile – the second real one of the day. "Yeah, you're right."

"I know. I'm awesome."

Mac choked on a laugh – a real one – and Jack expertly palmed the last bullet as he tucked the rest of the gun into the back of his pants. "So what the hell was in your left hand this whole time?"

His partner gave him a long look, and then he shifted the mylar further. Jack could see he had the whole damn duffel under there, and right on the top was a can of mace.

. . . of course it was.

"Keep it, brother. Anyone comes near you, hit 'em right in the eyes."

-M-

Took much longer to get here than I think any of us anticipated. I hope it was worth the wait!

Also . . . I'm not actually done with this scene. I do my writing in Word. This chapter is currently 31 pages and 12,104 words. Which is roughly twice the length of a regular chapter. Just because Mac is willing to risk giving up the gun does not mean he's ready to go back to the Phoenix just quite yet.


	24. Chapter 24

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Bozer studied her across the table, a little smirk playing on his lips. "I see."

She popped another cashew into her mouth, totally unfazed. "Do you."

He dropped a few bills imperiously into the middle of the camp table. "You ready to be annihilated?"

"Bring it."

They laid out their hands – except Jack, who'd folded, and was watching them sourly from the other side of a bottle of beer – and damned if Bozer didn't have a pair of aces and a pair of eights.

"Ooh. Dead man's hand," Jack grunted. "Maybe that means your luck is finally turning."

Bozer grinned triumphantly and raked the cash to his side of the table. "Nah, I'm just gettin' started."

Riley gave him a raised eyebrow, and turned at the waist to check her laptop. It was a little after two am.

Considering how jetlagged they all were – even her, and she'd at least been drugged into the right time zone – Bozer was probably not far off the mark. "I dunno, man, if I have to hit my own bank to stay in this game, I'll just get someone to bring us a projector and play the new Uncharted instead."

Jack's eyes lit up at the prospect of a projector. "Well, damn, Riley, I didn't even think of that."

"Yeah, I know. You're all about this 'traditional camping' bullshit." She waved a hand at the space.

Matty had done exactly what Jack had asked her to – pulled a bunch of legit camping gear out of storage, and brought it to the Boys and Girls' Club. They were on Coleman cots, that could be folded up in three sections like a lounge chair, and each of them had a light summer sleeping bag. She'd chosen to unzip hers into a blanket, and had tucked up the corners to keep them off the filthy floor.

And away the hell from Fred.

There were also actual camping lanterns scattered around. On each corner of the boxing ring – which John and Saito had declared was in good enough condition to use, after a little hands-on test, two around their little semi-circle, and one by Mac. She'd put one in the ladies' room, and almost wished she hadn't when she'd finally seen it, but at least the toilets flushed, there was toilet paper, and they weren't actually outside.

It woulda been cooler outside. Riley glanced back over at Mac, propped up in his corner.

He was still in the hoodie, but he'd at least unzipped it, and the mylar emergency blanket was across his legs. He'd stopped shivering a few hours ago, and right now she would have sworn he was asleep if she couldn't see the slight glint of his eyes, half open, watching the game.

He didn't want a cot, didn't want a sleeping bag. Didn't want a damn thing. Not that something like desire was an effective Bozer deterrent. True to his word, Jack had gotten someone to bring in some soup, and Bozer had taken a big swig before setting it down pretty much on top of Mac. He'd been eating it a little at a time. She couldn't tell from her angle how much progress he'd made, but at least it made the rest of them not quite so uncomfortable eating their own dinner.

Jack gathered up the cards and shuffled them in a perfect bridge.

"Hey, this is the way we did it in Texas." He grinned at the cards, cutting them and shuffling again. "'Cept there'd be a fire, and Dad had this great ol' iron skillet. Best steak you ever put on your tongue."

"Yeah. I remember you trying to recreate your childhood in our backyard." There had been one – exactly one – backyard camp-out. It had ended inside, under a sheet thrown over the back of the couch and the recliner, playing Mortal Kombat 3 until four am.

She still preferred her way.

Riley eased a crink out of her neck, and glanced up when the mylar crinkled, and Mac slowly pulled up his knees. Jack kept shuffling, but she knew he had one ear cocked, and Bozer polished off his own beer before turning and giving Mac a casual look.

"You okay?"

Mac got to his feet stiffly, coughing, and it took him a little while to straighten. He wasn't letting them give him anything, but he _was_ taking the drugs he'd pilfered himself from the safehouse. Nothing in his stock was going to do much about the muscle cramps, though.

"Fine, Boze," he muttered, when the coughs subsided, and then he slowly started across the room.

None of them reacted. Jack dealt the next round, and Riley tipped up the corner of her cards.

Jack and a seven. "Hit me."

Another jack. Score.

Mac went around them, still giving them a pretty wide berth, and disappeared to the other side of the boxing ring. Riley glanced at her laptop, and the six camera grid, following his progress down the long corridor. He headed into the men's locker room, rather than continuing for the side exit, and she got her last card.

Another jack.

Riley very carefully did not smile.

"He okay?"

"Yeah, he's in the men's room." There was an agent on the side exit, just like there was an agent on the rear and front. Mac knew he wasn't going anywhere, and he hadn't tried. She wasn't sure if that was because he was finally starting to recognize reality, or because he knew he physically couldn't fight his way out.

She liked the first thought better.

The cameras were not the only nod they'd made to technology. She'd had them set up a proper wifi network, and Mac – along with the rest of them - were on screen back at the Phoenix. Mac had refused to let anyone near him except them, so the Docs Talbot were assessing him from afar. They reserved the right to step in, if they thought they needed to, but for now, things on coms were quiet.

As for power, they hadn't seen a need to tell the entire block that the Boys and Girls' Club was occupied, so they hadn't bothered to reconnect it. Wifi was being run from a van on Pasadena, and the cameras were on battery power. Besides, the camping lanterns really did give off a lot of light, and sort of made it seem a little less like a dump, and more like an exotic ruin.

. . . or maybe she just _really_ wanted to play the new Uncharted.

"Jesus, he is killing you guys."

Riley gave John, who'd come up silently behind Bozer, a half-serious dirty look. "He's cheating is what he's doing."

"Now now, don't go throwin' shade just 'cause I got lady luck here with me."

John made a muffled sound, and then he rubbed his nose. "Yeah, well, until 'lady luck' gets out of the loo, I think you're gonna have to count your own cards, Bozer."

Riley blinked, and then looked up at John. Had he just said –

Bozer smiled beatifically. "First, Mac is too far away to see the cards. Second, even if he wasn't too far away – which he is – how exactly do you think he's telling me what play? It's not like he has coms. Did you hear him talking?"

She narrowed her eyes. " . . . yeah, but your losing streaks seem to happen right about the same time Mac drifts off . . ."

Bozer shook his head. "You got no proof, girl. Don't hate the playa."

Jack tossed his cards back on the table, but instead of folding, he threw a couple singles into the pot. "Well, then, _playa_ , how 'bout you put them dineros down and let's see."

"Oh yeah. Let's just see," Riley agreed, throwing in a couple bucks. She and Jack were relatively even, they had about twenty left apiece, but Bozer was definitely kicking their asses.

"Sure we can't deal you in, John?"

He shook his head, crossing his arms and looking over Bozer's shoulder at the cards. "Nah. I get a little competitive. Thanks though."

Jack took another swig of beer. "He likes to watch."

Riley snickered.

"Poker," Jack continued, his face the picture of innocence. "He likes to watch poker. He's one of those guys who actually watches the tournies on TV. Why, what were _you_ thinkin'?"

Riley waved her left hand. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jack, I'm just waiting to see if Boze here is gonna man up or what."

Bozer rolled his eyes. "Hah hah. And as it turns out, why yes I am." He threw four bucks in. "I see you, and I raise you."

Riley glanced at John, who could see Bozer's hand, but his face was a mask. Jack shoved a couple more dollars into the pot, and she gave Bozer one of Cage's slow blinks, and did the same.

Bozer narrowed his eyes at her. "I see what you did there."

Now it was her turn to look innocent. "I think both of you are seeing things. I'm just sitting here playing cards."

". . . you should fold, Boze," Mac called, looping back around the boxing ring. "Chances are Riley's got a pair or better, and if Jack's being nice, he's either got a flush or a three of a kind."

Jack opened his mouth, pointing accusingly at Bozer. "Dammit, man, I knew it, I _knew_ it –"

Riley pursed her lips. ". . . That's why you've been calling out everybody's hand."

Mac wasn't watching. He was listening.

"Hey, cheater, gimme some of my money back-"

Bozer and Jack devolved into a small wrestling match, that John watched with interest, and Riley abandoned the hand, leaning back as far as she was able and stretching her left arm towards the ceiling. Mac made his way back to his corner, settling in, and he picked up one of his red water bottles. He'd refilled them at some point in the afternoon, and was doing a pretty good job choking the stuff down.

He caught Riley watching him, and met her eyes.

"The cots are way more comfy," she pointed out, patting the frame of her own.

He gave her a half-smile. ". . . I'm kinda used to it."

. . . which was kinda heart-breaking. Also potentially unhygienic. "And you wonder why Fred likes you so much."

". . . yeah. About that."

Riley glanced back at John, who was still acting as a referee for Boze and Jack. "I still have yet to see this thing."

Riley helpfully pointed to Fred Tower. "Last known location. You spook him in my direction, I'm gonna throttle your home internet connection for a month."

"Dude, that cockroach is – ow, hey! – mutant, I'm telling you I wish I had my camera-"

John didn't seem to be making any moves towards Fred Tower, but she tucked her feet up on the cot. Just in case. "Fred's a pretty big bug, John."

The other agent waded into the arm wrestling and rescued Bozer's empty beer bottle before it got knocked off the camping table. "You ever lived in Florida? Those are big bugs."

Jack agreed, having manipulated Bozer into half a headlock. "Camp Blanding had roaches so big they'd help you carry in your gear."

"Two different genera. Florida has Eurycotis, here in SoCal we have Periplaneta." Mac sounded tired. "For a Periplaneta americana, Fred's a big boy."

Bozer eventually wiggled out of Jack's hold – more likely, Jack let him – and leaned back so he could get a good look at Mac. "We keepin' you up?"

Mac shook his head, which was propped up against the back wall.

It could not have been more obvious what they were up to, but after three weeks, Riley was just as happy as any of them for a little bit of normalcy. The beer and the lanterns were at least somewhat evocative of Mac and Bozer's patio, and so was the rough-housing. And she had to hand it to Jack and Boze – they'd even gotten Mac to join in, counting cards and finding a way to help Bozer cheat.

But she wasn't naive enough to believe that Mac was just suddenly fine. Everything he was doing, every time he got up, everything he said – that was a test. He was still trying to figure things out.

The stretches of time that they could get him to interact were getting longer. But then John or Saito would come through. It wasn't like they were dicks about it, and they seemed just as at ease as Jack and Boze, but they reminded Mac that this wasn't just some down period during an op.

Even if he knew what was going on now, he had to still be freaking out about what had already happened.

And she had no idea what to do about it.

She hadn't seen him sleep for longer than forty minutes at a stretch before he'd twitch himself awake. Every time he did it, he opened his eyes and looked around, just to reassure himself that he knew where he was. Jack had been pretty firm about the "no touch" rule and that had allowed them to encroach on his original boundary, so they were now on the Mac side of Fred Tower, and it didn't seem to bother him. But then all one of them needed to do was glance his way at the wrong time, and he was on guard again.

She and Boze hadn't made out the whole conversation, earlier, and Jack hadn't said another word about it. He'd passed most of a gun to Saito, who'd gotten rid of it somewhere, and acted like his normal Jack self ever since. Which was also super weird.

Normally Jack would be pacing a hole in the floor, or forcing Mac to interact, or sitting right next to him and irritating the crap out of him. Hands-off Jack was –

Was a little scary. Jack wouldn't be acting the way he was unless he thought it was the best thing for Mac. And a Mac he didn't think could handle so much as a fistbump was –

Was a little scary.

"Saito turn in?"

John grabbed a handful of cashews from the can. "Something about running an errand. My guess is he's crapped out in the van."

Jack just nodded, finishing his beer and putting the empty back in the six pack carton. "Guess we're gonna have to get back on Pacific eventually."

"Dude, I don't think you gotta worry about that for a while."

Riley relaxed back into the cot, adjusting her shoulder. She hadn't thought to grab much of anything when they'd hopped in the car, just her laptop and bag, and her pills were still downstairs by her bed in Medical. Saito had rustled up some over the counter stuff for them during the lunch run, and frankly she wouldn't have taken any of the harder stuff, even if she'd had it. But still.

Her shoulder fucking hurt.

"You're gonna be out a month, man, just with the leg," Tunne continued.

She heard Jack shift, and a bottle top pop off. "Nah, won't be that long. Been almost a month already."

Boze snorted. "Yeah, Jack. Pretty sure those first couple weeks don't count."

"Says the guy with a couple cracked ribs. C'mon over here, Boze, and lemme punch you, then I'll do it again in a couple weeks, and you tell me which one hurts more."

Riley half-smiled, and flipped the corner of the blanket over her legs.

"Pretty sure you already _did_ punch me today, Jack-"

"Yeah, well, that'll teach ya to cheat."

"C'mon, it's not really cheating if he can't even see the cards. Not like I was calling out suits or anything-"

"How the hell were you guys doing that, anyway?"

Bozer chuckled. "Baseball signals from A League of Their Own."

" . . . are you serious?"

"Tom Hanks and Geena Davis, come on, that film's a classic-"

"That film's a chick flick."

"Says the guy who cries more than my last girlfriend."

She waited for the retort, sure that John and Jack were going to have a field day, and when no one said anything, she opened her eyes.

The light was almost exactly the same. There might have been a little glow coming from the windows, high up on the wall, but otherwise it was just the soft yellow glimmer of the gas lanterns. Riley blinked a few times, then picked up her left arm, and the blanket slithered off her shoulders and the frame of the cot to land with a soft thump on the floor.

Whatever.

She glanced at her watch, not surprised to see it was quarter after five, and then she took a deeper breath, and pushed herself up a little higher on the cot so she could see.

Jack was basically where she'd left him, he'd propped the back third of his cot up at an angle, which was probably the only reason he wasn't snoring. From her vantage point, the half-healed cuts on his face from the splinters almost blended in with the crow's feet. Bozer, too, was in his cot – she thought. There was a lump on it, covered in a bright yellow summer sleeping bag.

Behind them, no more than an armslength away, stood MacGyver, doing the same thing she was.

Watching them.

He had his hands in the pockets of the hoodie, but the hood was down off his head, and his hair was tousled, like he might have actually gotten some sleep himself.

She gave him a sleepy smile, and resisted the urge to move any further. The second she did, her shoulder was going to make her regret it. "Morning," she said softly.

He didn't say anything.

And it occurred to Riley, belatedly, that this was almost exactly the setting of every horror movie ever made. It was the hour before dawn. Everyone was asleep. Jack was the group's protector, Boze was the comedic relief.

Mac was just outside the ring of light. He was clearly the crazy psycho clown monster that was going to tear them all apart.

And she was the girl who was supposed to scream, and then fall and trip over Fred Tower and break her ankle.

The thought made her smile more broadly. A little role reversal never hurt anybody . . . "You could scare the shit out of Boze right now," she told him, even more softly.

Mac dropped his gaze to his roommate, and even at her angle she could see the grin on Mac's face. But he didn't; he didn't move, apparently content to just stand there. She wondered idly how long he'd been there.

In her ear, her com gave a little pop. "Everything alright?"

The cameras couldn't see her face. All they could see was that she'd woken up, and Mac was just standing there.

"You okay, Mac?" she asked, in the same soft voice.

He kept staring at Boze, who was apparently completely oblivious. She thought she saw motion, on the wall far behind Mac, and decided that it might be John. It was way the hell too big to be Fred.

Surely they didn't think –

" . . . I don't know," Mac whispered back.

Riley eased her neck as far as the bandages would allow, and then stretched her left arm. At the end, she flexed her wrist in a kind of haughty princess gesture, and ended it with a thumb's up. Mac hadn't looked up, when she'd moved, and she dropped the arm and fished around on the ground for the blanket, pulling it back up onto the cot.

Her ear gave a little pop. "Copy. We'll hold. If you need us, say 'breakfast'."

Just the thought of it made her stomach rumble, and Mac's eyes came back to her.

She made no attempt to apologize. "I don't know how you can be okay on that tiny little cup of soup you ate last night."

He opened his mouth, and then Jack twitched a little. They both immediately averted their eyes, almost at the same instant, and Riley glanced furtively at Mac, before giving him a conspiratory smirk.

So she wasn't the only one with an irrational fear that staring at a sleeping Jack Dalton made him wake up.

His breathing settled back out, and Riley made a gesture at Mac to come over. She also finally gave in, and sat up carefully, cradling her arm and arranging her legs loosely indian style. Mac was just watching her, so she gestured again, to the foot of the cot.

Haltingly, he crossed the semicircle, completely silently, and then he sat, with his back to Jack. They were facing the lantern that had been set atop Fred Tower, and in the light it was hard to tell if Mac had really gotten sleep or not.

The cot creaked just a little with the extra weight, but Jack didn't budge, and Riley offered Mac a corner of the sleeping bag turned blanket.

He looked at her almost blankly, so she tossed it onto his legs, and then he withdrew his hands from the pockets, and pulled it over. He was close enough to touch, but he didn't look like he wanted to be, so she didn't.

"Are you hungry?" She whispered, much softer now that he was closer.

He thought about it, then shook his head. "Hard to explain."

She had done a couple diets – one not her choice – so she kinda had an inkling, but probably no idea what it was really like for him right now. "Did they try to give you nutraloaf?"

He glanced at her, almost looking startled, and she gave him a constricted shrug. "That's how they punish inmates who misbehave in supermax. Nutraloaf."

He nodded once, to show he understood, but then shook his head. And winced. "Well, kinda. If you mashed nutraloaf with water and salt."

Awesome. Grody vegetable and salty bean paste. "What did you miss most?"

Mac thought about that for a minute. "Chicken," he said, and then he shook his head again, like he couldn't believe he'd just said that.

She was pretty sure Jack had gotten Mac chicken noodle soup. "That soup didn't do it for you?"

He still looked like he hadn't quite got his mental footing. "I guess not," he whispered back.

She could understand that. "Couldn't sleep?"

He took a shallow, silent breath, and settled ever so slightly further onto the cot. "No. Didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry."

"You didn't. We're all jetlagged. It's cool," she assured him. It was hard to remember to soften every s, so that they weren't hissing at each other.

"Is this . . . real?" he asked suddenly.

Riley decided to take that question seriously, and glanced around the room. Studying the way the lanterns made weird shadows, the unrecognizable, misshapen piles of junk, the way the floor tiles seemed to move, slightly, if you weren't looking at them straight on.

Looking at the place in the quiet stillness of early morning, they'd done a hell of a job making it creepy.

"I think it's the set for the Rocky remake with zombies," she suggested, and he clamped down on a laugh.

"Seriously, though. Yeah. I think it's real."

Mac nodded, then he smiled, a little sadly, and his lips quirked. "I'm sorry." He made to stand.

She put out her left hand – she didn't touch him, and she didn't miss the way he braced for it, like he expected her to – and she motioned for him to sit. "What doesn't seem real?"

He stayed, his hand on the blanket that he'd been about to flip off his legs. It was steady, just incredibly thin.

" . . . not waking up there," he finally said.

Riley sat up a little straighter. _That,_ she had some experience with. ". . . I guess it was a week after you guys pulled me out of prison. I didn't have anywhere to be, no alarm. I just woke up on my own. And . . . yeah. I didn't know where I was. I didn't –" It had been completely surreal. She'd noticed the weirdest details about the furniture. That it was used, by someone else. Had wear marks. Just like her bunk in the cell. She remembered thinking she must have been in the infirmary, gotten into a fight and needed patching up. Getting out had been some crazy-ass dream.

She felt herself mirroring his sad look. "It didn't seem real," she finished, hating to use his words. They were just . . . the ones that felt right. "That happened a lot. I couldn't take naps for . . . months. Probably closer to a year. And sleeping on the jet . . ." She couldn't shake her head, so she settled for a quiet sigh. "I thought everybody noticed."

Mac was quiet, staring at the lantern. "We just thought you were crabby," Mac finally admitted, and it was her turn to stifle a laugh. She had to hold her breath to do it, which for some reason was _hilarious_ , and she just could not stop laughing. She wasn't making a sound, but there were tears in her eyes by the time she was able to breathe quietly again.

"Nice," she complimented him, and he inclined his head. ". . . but, Mac. I don't think it's the same."

He looked at her, silently, and she made a helpless gesture with her left hand. "You've been in supermax. Remember that op? You can't tell me you wouldn't prefer it to -"

Prefer it to Bumfuck.

Yes, she'd been afraid. She'd gotten beaten up. The food had been crap, but at least she'd gotten enough of it. And yeah, sometimes she thought she wasn't gonna get out alive. But it just didn't compare to what he'd been through – and that was without even knowing the details. She might have an inkling, but that was all she had.

Maybe it was because he'd been staring at the lantern, and now he was staring at the cot, but his eyes seemed to grow dark, so much so that there was more black than blue in them.

"And Mac . . . the thing that made it . . . so unbelievable . . . was you guys." When she heard the words out loud, she realized that was true. "I went in knowing no one was coming. No rich uncle and fancy lawyers. No hackers. And when I saw Jack . . ."

She glanced at his cot. He'd shifted his face away from the lantern, a little, so she couldn't see the scratches on his face anymore.

"I didn't believe it because I didn't deserve it."

Mac straightened suddenly, giving her a look that was half disbelief, half recrimination, and she winced, and held up her left hand. "You know what I mean. I felt like I'd blown it, and I was getting what was coming."

The reproach left his expression as quickly as it had appeared, and she had to duck her head to keep his eyes.

"Mac . . . tell me that's not what you're thinking."

He didn't say anything, which told her enough, and she frowned. "You knew we were looking. Didn't you?"

The corner of his mouth turned up, but she had no illusions it was a smile. "I kinda hoped. But . . . that scared me, too." His eyes came up, not to her face, but to her neck. "I knew what they were capable of."

Unthinkingly, she reached up and touched the bandage. Mac dropped his eyes, then leaned away. She thought he was going to get up, but second after second, the hand stayed on the blanket.

"Mac, you've moved too many mountains not to believe we'd move one or two for you." Even though she knew, now, exactly what it meant to do that. "We don't get to decide what we mean to someone else."

She glanced at Jack, then found herself unexpectedly smiling.

"Do you think he's still asleep?"

Mac glanced at her, then figured out who she was looking at. "No," he whispered. "I think he woke up when whoever's on coms asked if you felt threatened."

That . . . was probably true. She'd had them all on open coms, and the only thing she'd done was add a few more agents to their private, encrypted network. Jack had probably fallen asleep with his coms in, just like she had.

Well damn. That meant Jack had heard the whole thing – at least her half of it. Saito and John, too. Hopefully the whispers didn't pick up as well as normal speaking volume.

"What about Boze?"

Mac glanced over his right shoulder, then turned back to her. "He could sleep through zombie Rocky."

Mac looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead he stood up, painfully slowly, and carefully tucked the blanket back onto the cot. Riley didn't try to stop him, but hated the look he gave her when he was finally on his feet.

"I'm sorry, Riley." It was so soft, she barely heard it, and then Mac turned, and stole silently away from the lantern, back towards his corner.

-M-

Jack never admitted he was awake, even after some pointed staring, and Riley was surprised when she next opened her eyes to bright sunlight.

A glance at her watch told her it was just before seven.

Jack was nowhere to be seen, his sleeping bag folded into a pillow that had slipped to the middle section of his cot. Bozer was upright but groggy, looking vaguely hostile, and if she wasn't mistaken, Mac was sitting up in his corner, with his emergency blanket pulled up to his chest, fast asleep.

Riley pulled herself into a sitting position, noticing that someone had turned off all the gas lamps. No need for them now. She flipped up her laptop screen, not surprised to find herself with battery life in the teens, and checked the web cams.

There was motion at the back alley door, but by the time she figured that out, it was opening, so she just looked over and watched Jack come in, holding a brown cardboard tray full of glorious white paper cups.

"Good morning, campers!"

If there had been anything even remotely the right size within reach, she would have thrown it at him.

Mac had jolted awake, the mylar crinkling, and Jack gave him a big grin. "I got you some, if you want it," he offered, holding out a coffee cup. "'Fraid it's decaf, though. Doc's orders."

MacGyver's face was screwed up in one giant squint, and he rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand. ". . . then what's th'point of it?"

"That's what I said." Jack set it back down in the tray. "Heh. Too bad we're on coms. Bet I coulda given it to John."

Right on cue, her ear popped. "But you are on coms, Jack."

Another pop, as Saito weighed in. "I actually like my partner. I don't get him unleaded."

Jack waggled his head, repeating everything they were saying in a whiny little voice as he jauntily crossed the room. "I already had me a cup, and it was great! I hope Boze was kidding, about that soy latte double estrogen garbage. I got you the real thing."

He passed Bozer without even slowing, handing her a nice hot cup, and she blinked the sleep out of her eyes and sniffed it.

It was steaming, and it smelled vaguely like vanilla and caramel. She just nodded, mutely, and took a sip.

"That's my girl."

Then he turned for Bozer, who was nearly a statue, save his eyes, tracking Jack's every move. His hand came out almost robotically, but a coffee was deposited into it, and then Jack plucked up the not-decaf one, and set the tray on the camping table.

"God I love LA food trucks," he said, to no one in particular.

Of course there would be a coffee truck right next to a school. Because teachers.

Riley dug around in her bag for the mini bottle of advil Saito had gotten her, popping three with the next hot gulp of java. She had to pee, vaguely, but the desire to stay warm under the blanket won out, so she idly toggled through the twenty-seven alerts she'd gotten – all related to keyword searches on Phoenix servers she wasn't supposed to have access to – and then she glared at the laptop, and put it to sleep.

Somewhere in her bag she had a full battery.

"Didn't sleep good, Riley?"

She tried to soften the glare a little bit, still honestly curious if he'd been listening in last night. "You should know."

Jack spread his hands. "Naw, I slept like a log. Love camping!"

"Why are you so awake?" Bozer growled. Then, "Thank you," he added.

Riley looked past them, where Mac was just as reluctantly getting himself on his feet. At some point in the night, the hood had gone up over his head again, and he blinked at the room owlishly a few times, not looking their way, before he started presumably for the men's locker room.

Bozer was staring at her, then he rotated on the cot, his bare feet slipping with frightening accuracy into brown loafers.

"Hey, man. Wait up."

Mac stopped, giving him a blank look, and Bozer sucked down a big gulp of coffee, then grabbed a small black pouch out of his backpack. He started for Mac, apparently not realizing that he still looked unfriendly, and Mac was basically standing right in front of the exit to the back alley.

Somehow, neither of these things seemed to register to Mac, either, because he just stood there and let drowsy angry Bozer descend on him. Then again, they'd been roommates forever, so maybe this was normal seven am behavior.

Riley watched them, bemused, as Bozer said something, then held out the black pouch. Mac stared at him, nonplussed, and then surprised her by accepting the mystery pouch. Bozer spun on his loafered heels and headed straight back to them, and Mac turned the pouch over in his hands as he looped the boxing ring – on the far side, not getting too close to them – and headed down the corridor.

"Wish we'd thought about the water heater before we decided not to connect power," Jack said wistfully.

Riley made a face. "Dude. You'd shower here? With Fred?"

Jack's face could not have held more disgust. "Well, no, not _with_ Fred. What is wrong with you?"

"Cockroaches? Water? They're called waterbugs for a reason, Jack."

Jack shook his head, with the look he got right before he launched into a 'three miles uphill both ways in the snow' kinda lecture. "Riley. As far as gross bathrooms, this one don't even make the top fifty. Don't even register. And I'm serious here."

"And so I am, when I say, shut up," Bozer interrupted. "I wanna enjoy my coffee in peace, Colonel Chipper."

"Yeah." Riley huddled around the coffee for warmth. "Why are you in such a good mood?"

"I got a phone call." Jack preened.

Riley blinked at him a couple times, then slowly turned to look at Bozer. He was doing pretty much the same thing.

"Do we wanna -?"

"No," Bozer decided, before she was even finished. "No, I don't think so."

"From an old friend," Jack defended himself. "Old buddy of mine from my Army days. Hadn't talked to the guy in a while. It was nice catching up."

Riley made a noncommittal noise. "Oh, uh, great. How are his kids?"

Jack glanced off to the side. "Well, hell, now that you mention it, I don't think I asked –"

"Great catchup," she complimented him, and decided that peeing won out over cold. It wasn't really _that_ cold.

She slipped her shoes back on – there was no way in hell any of them were dumb enough to walk around barefoot on these floors – and yawned her way the women's locker room. She could hear the water running, in the men's, so she knew Mac was still in there. And she knew, even without watching the cameras, that if he'd tried to slip out the side door, not only would the door make a hellacious racket, but someone would have let them know by now.

Riley didn't exactly take her dear sweet time, but she did take her hair completely down – in case of Fred, or his kids – and give it a full inspection before she put it back up again. It would not be the first time she'd had an unexpected guest hitch a ride, and Fred was not one she was looking forward to seeing ever again.

Shit. She should have asked one of the agents to get a giant plastic one, just to mess with Boze.

She ended up with a single, unnecessary bobby pin, and she looked at it for a second before she stuffed it into the mess anyway, just to have someplace to keep it. Satisfied that she was passenger-free, she pushed open the door and hit the corridor just in time to almost mow Mac down. The hood was off, and he'd clearly run wet fingers through his hair in a valiant but not terribly effective attempt to make it behave, and even after he looked at her, then gestured with an automatic "After you," she didn't put it together.

No, it wasn't until they turned the corner of the corridor, into the main room, that she spun around and really looked at him.

Mac stared at her a second, then he reached up and rubbed his bare right cheek. "It was itchy," he said, by way of explanation, and then walked past her into brighter sunlight.

Riley followed after him, close enough to see the rest of the reception. Boze gave Mac a grin. Jack's look was a little more serious.

The black pouch. Boze had given him a shaving kit.

Neither one of them said anything, though, and Mac walked past them back to his corner, winding up the black pouch and stuffing it methodically into the duffel bag. Then he started folding up the mylar emergency blanket.

She wandered over to their semicircle, watching Mac earnestly attempt to actually fold that damn thing back into its original sleeve.

"Uh . . . we packing up?"

Jack was watching Mac's progress as well. He shrugged. "Looks like."

Taking his lead, Riley downed the rest of the coffee and swapped the fresh battery in, waking her gear out of sleep. Traffic was . . . traffic, but Phoenix seemed to have noticed the activity, as well, because two fleet SUVs were being tracked on the TOC board, headed their way.

God, she hoped they were empty.

"My man, got any idea about those two SUVs?"

There was a pause, and then her ear popped. "Pretty sure Mac knows I'm around," Saito reminded her.

Riley rolled her eyes. "I know. Fine. Whatever. SUVs."

"Shift change."

Riley toggled back to the TOC board. She knew all the agents on roster, and she knew that Mac knew them. "What, you guys don't like working forty eight hour shifts?"

"Not without a shower. Unless you really want me to come over and hug you."

"Hey now." Jack's voice held a note of warning. "No call for that."

"Aww. You jealous, Jack?"

"Yeah," Jack shot back. "I need a hug, man. Get over here."

"Uh . . . am I interrupting something?"

All three of them turned, to find Mac standing there, his duffel high on his shoulder. With the beard gone, she could see some deep purple marks on his jaw that hadn't been visible before. But . . .

He looked a little more like himself. Even the misbehaving hair.

Jack openly eyed him from head to toe, and his expression was doubtful. When he finally spoke, though, his voice was downright gentle.

". . . you sure about this, man? Because we can stay here as long as we need to."

Mac didn't immediately answer, and his eyes flicked to each one of them in turn. Riley gave him a hopeful look.

". . . no," he finally said. Then he shifted the duffel bag with a grimace. "But it's time."

It went unspoken, but she was sure they all heard the rest of that sentence. Time to find out if he'd guessed right or wrong.

Jack gave him a slow nod. "Well alrighty then. Here we go."

And he held out a fist.

Mac's lips quirked a little, and he made a loose fist, bringing it down on Jack's.

"Here we go."

-M-

Yeah, kinda had to steal that last line, because it sums them up perfectly.

A couple of you PMed me, to ask what Mac meant last chapter when he said that "if he did this, it'd be over." I hadn't actually interpreted it the way those two readers had, so I'll try to resolve that ambiguity next chapter.

In summary: hey look! They finally got Mac back. Again.


	25. Chapter 25

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

**ROUGHLY FOUR WEEKS LATER**

He hit the mat flat on his back, and Mac lay stunned for a moment, blinking up at the white-painted I-beams on the ceiling. It hadn't knocked the wind out of him, but it was close.

His attacker stalked around him in a slow circle, and Mac rolled away from him, getting back to his feet. He hadn't even straightened before the rubber training knife went straight for his face.

He dodged it with a smirk, deflecting the wrist holding the knife away, and he followed it up with a solid palm strike to the man's chest, propelling his attacker several feet back. The man grunted and recovered, changing his grip on the knife. Now it was blade down and facing out. Not for stabbing, but for slicing.

The mask made it impossible for him to see his assailant's expression, but his eyes glittered out from the black fabric.

"Getting hot in there?" Mac taunted.

The knife feigned right, and Mac danced to his left, watching the man's feet and hips more than the weapon. First rule of a knife fight – you're going to get cut. As long as they were shallow cuts to non-critical areas, that was fine. He could take a slice to the chest or arm if it meant protecting his throat.

The knife moved from his attacker's right hand to his left hand, and Mac sharpened his attention. The attack, when it came, was basic hand to hand, another feign and a punch, and he deflected both, twisting on his left foot to avoid a knee.

The elbow, he was not expecting, and Mac threw both his forearms up to block. The knife came for his abdomen and he spun away, but not before his left wrist was grabbed. Mac guessed more than saw a sweep coming, stepping in and blocking it with his shin, but the knife came back around for his face again and he was forced to shift his weight back, cementing the lock on his wrist. A strike to his knee put him on the ground, with his left wrist twisted behind his back.

His body moved itself. His head flew back, trying to evade the bucket it knew was there, and his hips twisted to relieve the pressure on his wrist. His right arm swung out blindly, trying to clear some space between him and the person trying to hurt him.

His wrist was released instantly, and the other man leapt back, barely avoiding a punishing blow to the gut. The training knife hit the mat, forgotten, his opponent ripped off the mask, and Mac fell back onto his butt, with his left wrist pulled protectively to his chest.

Jack's face was red and sweaty. "Whoa, easy -"

Mac found himself back on his feet, without remembering how he'd gotten there. His chest was tight.

He waved Jack off, stalking across the mat to grab a towel, and his hand shook when he reached out for it. He grit his teeth and tried to force it steady, fighting his body's attempt to increase the cadence of his breathing.

_Dammit!_

Failing both those things, he snatched up the towel and scrubbed it viciously across his face. Then he took a deep, deliberate breath.

He heard Jack moving behind him, and he shook his head, once. "Don't."

"Hey, it's time for a break anyway." Jack's voice was neutral. He listened to the other man grab the towel off his own workout bag. It slapped down after a second, and then plastic crinkled. Something blunt poked him in the arm.

Mac glared, and found a bottle of water hovering right beside him. His partner's face looked about the same as his tone. Neutral. No judgement.

He accepted the bottle, not because he wanted it, but because he didn't want to be a jerk. It wasn't Jack's fault.

. . . and if he wanted to get technical about it, it wasn't exactly his either. At least not the conscious portion of his brain. It was his cerebellum and amygdala, just doing their thing. Remembering what certain movements meant, and producing the right motions and emotions to prevent and reduce damage to his tissues.

It was a reflex. Sometimes incorrectly termed muscle memory.

Mac cracked open the bottle of water and took a swallow, just to have something to do with the nervous energy that came with the adrenaline. He very carefully screwed the top back on, instead of pitching the whole damn thing across the room. The towel received less humane treatment.

Jack didn't say anything about it. He just settled onto the bench, taking a long pull of his own water bottle. His left hand was idly kneading the muscles above his left knee. Mac wasn't sure if he even knew he was doing it.

They were a mess.

He let some of the anger drain away, heading back to the mat to grab the discarded training knife and tossing it up in the air, catching it neatly by its black rubber blade. If it had been real, he'd have considered tossing it at the cork bulletin board, showing the week's scheduled classes. Thursdays were open, first come first served, and they'd reserved the space for an hour.

Didn't look like they'd be needing it that long after all.

The irritation came back, and Mac scowled at the neat grids of classes, the neat rows of the calendar. Four weeks. It had been four weeks.

A week longer than he'd even been-

_It doesn't work that way._

Mac huffed an angry sigh. "Sorry, Jack. Let's go again."

"Nah, man, I think you're good." He heard a plastic cap screwed back onto a bottle. "We worked up a sweat, that was the point."

He held onto his annoyance by a thread. "The point is to get us both back into field condition. We go again."

Mac turned to see Jack still on the bench, idly turning the water bottle in his hands. Over and over. "We got time, man. Don't need to rush."

"Actually, we do," he contradicted. "The Marr-Albus model shows that reflexes are learned and stored as a result of long-term depressions of the fiber synapses onto Purkinje cells-"

"Does nerding out actually help you?"

"- and the longer we leave those depressions intact, the harder it will be to modify them," he continued, letting his irritation bleed into his voice. "So we go. Again."

Jack shook his head helplessly. "Alright, man, alright. You had me at parcheesi cells."

He couldn't help it. He snapped. "Why do I even bother trying to explain these things to you?" Mac regretted it as soon as he said it, though a slow smile had started to grow on Jack's face, and his partner climbed to his feet.

"You don't know a lost cause when you see one. One of your many character flaws."

Mac held his tongue, adjusting the wrap on his left wrist, and Jack's eyebrows raised. "What's eatin' you today? You've been in a mood since this morning."

"Have I?" He passed the knife between his hands, getting a good feel for the thickness of the rubber hilt, and Jack surprised him by standing right in front of him, flat-footed.

"Yeah, man. You have."

He felt his eyes narrow a little. "Are we doing this or not?"

"Talking?"

Mac lashed out with the knife, and probably despite himself Jack responded. Flat footed or not, he was no slouch in the hand to hand combat department, and Mac noticed that Jack took special care to deflect the strike further up his arm than he actually had to, avoiding his wrist.

The stress fractures were healed. And even if they hadn't been, he was wearing braces and wraps. The mollycoddling was really starting to piss him off.

Mac pressed the attack, targeting all the critical areas, and Jack simply gave ground, batting him away when he had to, otherwise evading without retaliation.

"'Cause you know you can talk to me," Jack continued, drawing them in a wide circle.

"Is that so?" The knife wasn't getting him anywhere, so Mac switched his hold – the same way Jack had done earlier – and then sent a jab right at his nose, giving Jack no alternative but to engage.

Jack deflected the jab to the outside, coming in and pinning his left hand – and knife – to his chest. He'd tried to angle it so Mac would end up stabbing himself, but Mac didn't let him, and the two struggled for a moment with it before Jack tucked a foot behind his, released the knife, and shoved him flat on his ass.

"Yeah," Jack said easily, backing off, and Mac set his jaw and climbed back to his feet. "About anything. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, Jack," he replied, mimicking his tone. "You know, something did come up, just this morning."

His partner grinned. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He went straight for Jack's throat, following it up with a few none-too-gentle body blows, that Jack either blocked or absorbed. It left his face open, and Mac feigned a cross before he took out his right knee.

Jack went down, but he spun, turning it into a sweep, and once again, Mac found himself on the mat.

"So what happened?"

Jack was still on his knees, and Mac planted his foot in his partner's chest, sending him sprawling.

"Jill came in and -"

He was on Jack before his partner could get his hip up, and Jack blocked the downward knife strike with his forearms, crossed at the wrists. Mac put all his weight into trying to get the rubber tip of the knife to touch the skin of his throat

"- asked which arrangements Matty wanted for the memorial-"

Jack's eyes widened, shifting from the training knife to his face, and Mac dug his left knee into Jack's gut, taking advantage of the falter. It bought him another inch, almost –

Jack moved, redirecting the focal point of both their efforts to his right, and they both slipped, with the knife striking the mat harmlessly. Jack leveraged his greater weight, rolling them so that he was on top, but Mac knew it was coming and targeted Jack's left knee. He grunted and fell off-balance, and Mac rolled them again, back into nearly the same position as before.

"So," he added, winded, "of course I wondered –" and he dug into Jack's gut a second time, "-what memorial-"

His partner grimaced beneath him, both of them trembling with effort, and the knife was getting ever closer.

"-and it turns out –"

Jack growled, and then somehow wormed his left leg out from under him and kneed him in the right hip.

Pain radiated down Mac's right leg, but worse, it changed the angle of his position, and once again Jack found leverage, and rolled them to the edge of the mat.

Jack changed his hold, focusing all his efforts on twisting Mac's right hand – holding the knife – to the side, and he leaned up and away from the left cross Mac threw at him. Mac bucked his lower body, trying to knock Jack off balance, and then a hand fisted in his hair, and _he_ was the one yanked forward.

He was briefly airborne, Mac couldn't quite figure out where down was, and when he came to a sudden stop his right arm was pinned beneath his back, and his left was locked, putting serious pressure on the joint of his left shoulder. An arm was around his throat, in a loose choke hold, and one of his legs was immobilized.

His body responded automatically, doing everything it could to get his weight off his right arm. The body beneath him didn't budge, just twisted his left wrist further. The arm around his throat tightened a little, making his blood pound in his ears.

Mac was seeing stars before he finally managed to get a grip on his reaction and stop struggling. By then he was gasping for air. After a few breaths, the hold on him relaxed, just a little, and he jerked at his right arm again. This time he was reasonably sure it was a conscious choice.

It was still several more moments before he realized Jack was talking. "-in the gym at Phoenix. I need to hear you say it, Mac. C'mon, buddy, come back to me -"

"Get off me," he half-panted, half-growled, and gave his right arm another jerk. He lacked the strength in his rotator cuff to pull the limb free, it wasn't healed enough yet –

"Mac, tell me where you are."

His left leg – the only one he could move - scrabbled for purchase on the floor, but Jack had arched his spine over his right arm, he couldn't get any leverage.

"Come on, man, breathe-"

"Phoenix," he panted. "Gym."

The steel band around his chest loosened, just a little bit, and it took him a second to realize that, unless Jack had a third arm, that wasn't part of the hold.

Making him say out loud where he was. Grounding himself in the present. Exactly what Dr. Miller had told him to do.

"Yeah, yeah, that's right. Phoenix gym. What day is it?"

It was harder to remember than it should have been. " . . . Thursday."

And it was stupid, almost insanely childish, but after saying the day out loud, it was once again noticeably easier to get a deep breath.

His left wrist was released – gently – and the arm around his neck loosened until it was just holding him steady. Jack used it to give him a few pats on the shoulder. "Right again, brother."

Mac slithered out of his grasp, rolling to his left, and once he was on his back, he stayed there for a second, just trying to catch his breath.

"So you heard about the memorial."

Mac got a few more lungfuls of air, then swallowed some spit back into his throat. He didn't look at Jack. "When were you gonna tell me?"

There was a rough sound, fingernails scraping across scruff. "A couple days after."

The nuances of the job meant that no one knew what they really did. Not their spouses, not their parents, not their roommates. Which made it very difficult for their coworkers and colleagues to attend the funeral when an agent died. Usually an agent's partner was known by enough of the close and extended family to get away with it, but the department at large typically held a memorial of their own, a few weeks after the official service.

And in this case, neither partner had attended the other's funeral, because both partners of both pairs had died.

Four agents. Four agents had lost their lives in Greece.

Four agents died recovering two.

"You plannin' on going?" Jack finally asked.

Mac stared at the white ceiling, and he clenched his jaw, effortlessly forcing down the lump. "I don't think that would be appropriate," he finally managed.

He wouldn't want his murderer at his funeral, after all. Not for his own sake, because he would of course be dead and therefore nonexistent at that point, but for the sake of all the people who were grieving his loss.

Beside him, he heard a sigh. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do-"

"Then shut up," Mac snapped. "Just shut up, Jack."

The last time he'd said that, he'd been lying on the floor, feeling just as guilty as he did right now. That had been the day that he gave up the name "Phoenix Foundation" and paved the way right to them.

Jill hadn't been foolish enough to give him any details, she's figured out far too quickly that he'd been in the room and clammed up with a quick "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting," and melted out the door again. All he'd been able to gather was what he could see of the now-closed action reports. All of them contained redactions, most pretty significantly. However, certain reports were longer than others. Certain reports stopped containing data after a specific date.

And then there was the night they all spent together at the Boys and Girl's Club. Bozer's injuries. Riley's injuries. Cage's injuries.

It wasn't a very difficult puzzle.

Mac closed his eyes and brought up a hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His fingers were still shaking.

"You and I were about the only good to come out of that op." Jack's voice was surprisingly hard. "Now you can go and feel just as responsible as you want, or you can suck it up and be there for the people they left behind."

He left his eyes closed, concentrating on controlling his breathing. In and out.

"And while you're hanging onto all that guilt, pal, keep in mind you had about zilch to do with it."

Mac couldn't help it. He laughed, low in his throat. "Oh, here comes the Jack logic. This oughta be good."

"You don't have the first damn idea –"

"Oh, well then why don't you tell me, Jack! After all, we can talk about anything, right?"

He heard Jack shift, beside him, and he tensed despite himself. Jack had pulled himself onto his elbow, and his glare had no small amount of heat.

"They tagged the cars, Mac. They used me as bait and they tagged the cars. I was in the goddamn SUV with Cage and we thought we shook 'em. That's how they found us. It didn't have a damn thing to do with you!"

"Really?" He mirrored Jack's position. "Because even _if_ they followed you back to the safehouse – which is only supposition - you would have left it and flown home if you hadn't still been looking for me! There were _three days_ between your recovery and –"

And the date when four reports ceased to have additional entries.

"How many twists and turns you got in that brain of yours? You think we woulda up and left Aydin to do as he pleased after he murdered three Americans?"

That was, as much as Mac hated to admit it, a good point. "That could have been done from here-"

"Yeah, because Cage seduces all her marks via FaceGram," Jack growled. "Everyone in that villa _wanted_ to be there, Mac. It was a volunteer op."

MacGyver's stomach dropped. He'd recognized everyone's names, but he'd figured it had to do with Aydin and their specific skillsets, not –

Not the fact that he called all of those men friends.

Somehow he dredged up a bitter smile. ". . . thanks for making my point for me."

Jack pushed himself to his feet. "Damn it, Mac, you are not personally responsible for all the bad shit that happens in this world. Do you get that?"

Mac sat up warily, but all Jack did was offer him a hand. "That op was bigger than just you, and just me. Besides the whole rogue militia situation, there was a damn mole in the State Department. And it turns out Aydin's guys were responsible for killin' quite a few others. Everybody went into that op eyes wide open. That ain't on you."

Mac ignored the offered hand, getting back on his feet himself. Jack started to shake his head.

"But yeah, what do I know. Sure, Mac. All your fault."

MacGyver briefly thought about picking up the training knife, but he knew he was too frustrated and too rattled to keep going. He'd already said too much, and too much of it in anger. Mac started off the mat, but a firm hand closed on his right arm, and he clamped down on any reaction other than stopping, and remaining perfectly still.

"You gotta start talkin', man."

The same terrible advice he'd given him in his cell.

Mac yanked his arm free, without turning around. "Talking is what got them killed."

Behind him, he heard Jack take an angry breath. "And just what the hell is it you're supposed to have told 'em, huh? The address of the villa you didn't know existed? The names of the agents you didn't know were there?"

He turned on his partner before he even thought. "I gave up the Phoenix!" The steel band was back, right on top of his lungs, and some tiny part of his mind wondered which muscle family was causing that sensation. If he could isolate it, he could practice techniques to relax it. "And you," he added, a little more quietly. "I told them about you, Jack."

His partner didn't grin it away, like he expected. The crow's feet deepened, just a little, and then his partner nodded. "Good," he said. "Good thinkin'."

Something must have changed on his face, because Jack kept nodding. "As far as you were concerned I was dead, dude. What were they gonna do, kill me again?"

His hand came up, to count off all the ways that logic was flawed, everything that could have been done with the information he'd disclosed, and he collapsed it into a fist with effort. "But you weren't dead, Jack. I told them exactly who was coming for them."

And more to the point, they _had_ almost had killed Jack again.

"Come _on_ , man. You think we were dumb enough to link anything back to the Phoenix Foundation?" His partner looked disappointed.

In him.

"We put together backstops for everyone like we always do. You seriously tellin' me you're this tied up in knots over givin' these guys the party line?"

He didn't answer, which he knew was kind of the same thing as answering, and his partner shook his head.

"The second we got taken down at the museum you musta put together that our intel was bad. You really think Matty'd throw any more resources into a situation like that without protecting 'em?"

No. He knew that she'd try. "Jack-"

"No." The knife hand he'd held back was now being waved in his face. "Now you listen to me, kid. I don't know what they did to you, but I _do_ know that you did what you had to do to keep yourself alive, and there's not one of us, not _one_ , who wouldn't'a done the same. Even Deltas got a playbook for breakin' somebody down, and there's not a human on this earth could get through it."

Mac swatted Jack's hand out of his face. "That's the problem, Jack! What I did, what I might've-" He broke off, then he turned away with a shake of his head, and stalked off the mat. He managed to shove his towel in the bag before Jack caught up with him, and his partner grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, spinning him around.

Mac shoved him back, hard, but Jack got right back in his face. "You get outta that head of yours right now, man, I am dead serious here. Don't you _might've_ me. Is that why you –" He stopped, then glanced at the gym entrance. His voice was lower, but no less intense. "Is that why you took it? Because of _might've_?"

The gun. Jack was talking about the gun.

Mac met his glare head-on. "Jack, think about the skill set they need in that part of the world. Think about mine. See any overlap?"

His partner rolled his eyes. "Tellin' 'em about a think tank ain't the same as building them a _bomb_ , Mac-"

"Yeah, I didn't build it. I just disarmed it," he shot back. "A few more rounds of me doing QA testing and they'd have a device that would impress the Ghost."

If Jack was surprised, he didn't show it. "You disarmed one bomb for them? Big fuckin' deal. That little trick with the transponder? So what? They could track the NATO fleet, but it wasn't like they do anything about it -"

Yes. The transponder. "You mean rigging an aircraft transponder to spoof a maritime one? That little transponder trick?" He didn't bother to let Jack answer. "Yeah, that was pretty clever. Too bad I don't remember doing it."

Finally, Jack looked surprised.

". . . what do you mean, you don't remember-"

"I mean I don't remember it. Any of it." Mac searched his face, willing him to realize exactly what that meant. "I have no way of knowing how many times that happened, Jack. Do you get it? I was doing things, I was helping them, and I don't-"

And there was no way to know. Not without capturing one of them alive, or finding some kind of record of the sessions. There were plenty of pharmaceuticals that would impair the creation of short term memories, or prevent memories from being successfully transferred into long term memory. The how didn't bother him as much as the not knowing.

Knowing what else he gave them. And knowing that they could repeat the process, however many times it took to get what they needed.

But it was pretty clear Jack didn't get it. "It doesn't matter. I don't care if you gave them nuclear launch codes, dawg, because they're all too dead to use 'em."

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly know that at the time, did I." The entire episode, coming around in Phoenix Medical, leaving, holing up in the abandoned Boys and Girls' Club – that was a set of memories he wished would vanish, just like sending the SOS to Phoenix via transponder.

No one had said anything about it, not even Matty, which just made it worse. Mac shook his head. "Look. If that's what you're worried about-"

"Hell yes that's what I'm worried about!" Jack's voice rose in pitch. "Jesus, Mac, I have known you a long time, and you've been through some serious shit in your life, but you've never . . . it's never been so bad that you would even consider that an _option_ , man."

Mac took a step back, raking a hand through his hair. "It's not like I was exactly in my right mind. And it wasn't like I wanted . . ." He sighed in frustration. "I needed to make sure they couldn't use me to hurt anyone. If I couldn't run, and I couldn't fight . . . look, you don't need to worry about it. I'm good. Okay?" He took some of the edge off his tone. "I'm good."

Jack lowered his chin a little, and softened his glare. " . . . how close was it?"

Giving up the gun meant relinquishing control. It was the quickest and most effective method available to him. The medic could save him from drowning, from a heart attack, even from severing a major blood vessel, but nothing could save him from a precisely placed bullet. It was just that simple. Once that option was removed, he no longer had any say in how the chips fell.

Once he gave up that gun, he was at the mercy of whoever was around him. And at that moment, he hadn't been sure who that was.

And he wanted to say that was all it was. Simple logic. A risk analysis. "Think about the amount of damage I could do, Jack. My skillset in the wrong hands."

"How close."

Mac knew the answer that would get Jack off his back. " . . . I don't know," his mouth said instead.

His partner gave him a long look. "Now that I believe."

Mac was briefly unable to meet his eyes.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. You found one of your limits. I know that probably hasn't ever happened to you before, and I think it scared you pretty good, but frankly it's about damn time."

Mac glanced back up, a protest on his lips, but he could see a little twinkle in Jack's eyes. "You're human. Hate to break it to ya."

He held up a wrist. "Kinda figured that one out already."

"Yeah. That's gonna take time, man. Even for you."

Mac turned the wrap over, looking for the edge of the tape, and started unwinding it. "I don't know, Jack. I don't . . . " He turned back to the bench, to his bag, and once he had the tape unwound he tossed it in. "I couldn't tell the difference."

Jack took a seat on the bench, and picked up his half-empty bottle of water. "Difference between what?"

The edge of the tape on his left wrist was a little harder to find. "Between what was real and what wasn't. I tried, literally, every trick I know. Running complex equations. Reading. Looking for certain auditory and visual stimuli." He almost gave up and went for his multitool before he finally found the edge. He'd tucked it under. ". . . I couldn't logic my way out of it."

His partner swallowed a mouthful of water. "Yeah. Some things you can't. Like that." He nodded at Mac's wrists. "Man, I'll keep on you as long as you want, but there's not enough exposure therapy in the world that'll stop you reacting the way you are."

'Exposure therapy' was not a term he'd ever heard Jack use, and Mac glanced at him curiously as he unwound the tape. His partner grinned, and screwed the cap back on the waterbottle.

"What, you think you're my first partner suffering from PTSD?" Somehow he managed to make it sound like it wasn't a big deal. "I didn't run into you until end of my first tour. You bomb nerds were the worst."

Mac felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "I don't know about that." Normally when you screwed up a disposal, you didn't live long enough to be upset about it.

"Mostly guys that missed something, or thought they did." Jack studied the bottle, letting the water run from one end to the other. "Had overwatch on I guess five guys before you. Most of 'em didn't even complete one tour before they went back stateside."

Mac finished unwinding the tape, and he tossed it into the bag with the rest. And damned if his hands weren't still shaking.

But his brain was still working, and he gave Jack a suspicious look. "Is that what you're doing? EMDR?"

Eye-movement desensitization and reprocessing was a technique Dr. Miller had been using in their sessions. Except instead of a water bottle she made him watch a Newton's Cradle she had on her desk. If he thought about, that was also as much for auditory as it was for a visual. The clicking of the balls were a reminder that time was passing when she'd ask him to –

Jack looked down at the bottle, as if he'd just realized he was playing with it. "Messing with stuff seemed to help 'em. One of the guys in my Delta unit used to throw a tennis ball against the wall."

Mac cast his mind back. "Is that why he did that?"

"Yeah, that or to drive the rest of us batshit crazy."

He couldn't help a little smile. "Yeah, that was pretty annoying. I wondered why none of you ever called him on it."

"Everybody copes the best way they know how." Jack upended the water bottle, watching the water flow. "But this habit you got of compartmentalizin' everything . . . it's not the way." His partner flipped it back over, and unscrewed the cap. "You're not gonna stop flinching until you feel safe. And that's not gonna happen until you stop trying to think your way through this."

Mac fished his mostly full water bottle out of his bag. "Please tell me you're not gonna try hugging it out."

Jack chuckled. "Nah man, you're all sweaty and gross." He sighed, and then stretched his left leg out in front of him. "And ow, by the way."

Mac winced a little. "Sorry about that."

"Yeah, right," his partner groused good-naturedly. "Look, what I'm trying to get at is, you're gonna have to change up your usual strategy. You know, all that crap that lesser humans do. Like, deal with emotions. Take more time than you think you need. Give yourself a damn break once in a while."

Mac took a sip of the water. "Turn into a crier, like you?"

"Hey man, ain't nothing wrong with wearing your heart on your sleeve," Jack said easily. "Instead of burying yours in concrete like it's plutonium rods or something."

"Uranium," he corrected without thinking. "Plutonium is normally part of nuclear warheads. We use uranium rods in reactors."

"Whatever. Stop nerding and start feeling. Okay?"

Mac capped the bottle. "Okay."

Jack tried to follow his gaze. "Really?"

He gave the man a nod. "Really."

"You're just saying that."

"Nope," Mac replied, zipping up the bag. "I just do my feeling in private, instead of at staff meetings. Or stakeouts. Or while the bad guys are shooting at us."

His partner's face lit up with a dirty grin, and Mac rewound the words in his head before closing his eyes with a groan. "Just don't . . ."

"But you make it so easy, dude," Jack pointed out, zipping up his own bag. "You talk to Bozer at all?"

Once Jack was on his feet, Mac headed towards the exit with him. "Yeah. Kinda hard not to, since he lives with me." His partner gave him a different kind of dirty look, and Mac shrugged. "Yes, Jack. I talk to Boze."

"And if I ask him that, he'll tell me the same?"

They pushed open the double doors to the gym, heading towards the locker room. Mac very carefully didn't think about how this hall had looked to him, four weeks ago. "Sure."

That was almost certainly false. Boze wouldn't be satisfied that they'd 'talked' til he knew every second of every minute of the time he'd been gone. He'd shared a little. The parts that mattered.

Right now Matty and a veritable legion of people he had to assume worked for Oversight, if they weren't Oversight themselves, knew more than any of his friends. They'd _told_ him more than any of his friends had, as well. He wouldn't have known about the transponder if Oversight hadn't asked him about it.

Not being able to remember that, sending that distress call . . . that didn't sit well with any of them. They'd spent more time on that than the few details he actually _could_ remember of the dream – or maybe not - about Ahmad al-Jaber Air Force base. And they'd spent days going in circles on that one. But somehow that was still easier. Telling them the facts of what he saw, heard, and did wasn't easy, exactly, but it wasn't . . .

Wasn't the same as telling Boze, or Jack, or Cage, or even Dr. Miller. Oversight didn't care how he felt about anything. They just wanted to know how much damage control they had to do. And he had no doubts that his sessions with Ava Miller were going straight to Oversight, with a cc for Matty. He'd endangered the entire organization. Whether he was ever cleared for agent status again was pretty much out of the director's hands. He was probably lucky he was allowed off campus at all, and he suspected he had Matty to thank for that.

Not that he was ever going to get agent status back if he couldn't even handle getting an arm twisted.

Jack grinned at him, pulling him out his thoughts. "Because you know we're all comin' to your place tonight to grill out, right?"

. . . awesome. "I didn't, but that's fine. Gives me time to pick the place up."

That was also a lie. The house had never been neater. He'd spent most of last night reorganizing the drawers in the kitchen. Mac hadn't moved any of Bozer's cooking utensils, but there'd been no reason to have the X-acto knife collection and arduinos in with the whisks.

One good thing about the insomnia, anyway. And one of his healthier coping mechanisms, to hear Dr. Miller tell it.

She also said he should try to engage in group activities, so at least he could check that box off for the day.

"Agent Dalton!"

They both turned, to see an analyst Mac didn't know very well hanging out of the door to the stairs. "The director wants to see you."

He blinked at her, then looked down at his sweat-stained shirt. "Now?"

The analyst looked him up and down. "Uh . . . yes?" It sounded pretty uncertain.

Mac clapped a hand on his partner's shoulder. "You should probably get a shower first-"

"I should probably get a shower first," Jack agreed. "Tell her I'll be there in five."

The analyst disappeared back into the stairwell, and Jack peeled off for the locker room door. "Six o'clock?"

"Sure." Mac continued down the hallway, towards the garage, and smiled at little at himself when he was genuinely surprised his badge opened the door.

-M-

The next scene promises to be longer than this one, so I thought I'd pass this part along now. Thanks for all the comments! I didn't really know how awesome reviews and reviewers could be until I hopped the line from lurker to author. You folks have really been welcoming and awesome, and I appreciate it.

Also, you seem smitten with Fred the War Cockroach. I wonder if he will make a cameo in someone else's fic?


	26. Chapter 26

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

She got the door, moving inside and out of the way as Jack carried in what had to be fifty pounds of groceries, and nodded at Bozer, who was elbow deep in a metal mixing bowl full of hamburger meat.

"I got cow and beer," Jack announced, and Riley closed the door behind him.

"Cool. Wings are marinatin', so all we need now are some veggies to round us out and we're good."

Jack stumped into the kitchen, the paper grocery bags rustling loudly as he made counterspace, and Riley glanced around the living room before making her way out onto the deck.

Sure enough, he was there. He was standing right up against the railing, she'd always thought it was crazy low and not to code, but it was the perfect height for sitting on.

He wasn't, though, just his beer. Two thirds full. And she knew it'd stay that way, all night long. Just like it did last week, and the week before that.

"Hey Mac."

He turned a little, she got the corner of his eye, and the portion of his mouth she could see was turned up.

"Hey Riley."

She was gonna turn that a real smile.

"Think it'll hold off?"

Mac glanced up. Thunderheads were rolling in, they hadn't reached the city yet but were probably an hour or so out. It didn't rain often, in LA, but when it did it usually meant it.

"At least until the cooking's done."

She just nodded, wandering over to stand beside him. There really was no better view in the city, she'd come to love this one best. The trees on the property kept the air a little cooler, and maybe a little cleaner, and on days when the wind actually carried the smog out of the city, it was insane how far you could see.

The kickass binoculars Mac had scattered all around the house certainly didn't hurt. They'd watched two wildfires from this deck in the last year alone.

"So how was your Thursday? Enjoy kicking Jack's ass?"

Mac's smile became a little more genuine. "He can take it."

"Yeah, I guess he can." She reached up and adjusted her sling, sliding the collar of her tee out from under the neck strap. Jack's car was fine, but the bucket seats sunk her a little lower than ideal for the stupid thing. While she was in there, she fished out her phone, transferring it to her back pocket, and popped out her lip balm, giving herself a fresh coat.

Mac watched her, his expression bemused. "Wow. What else do you have in there?"

She peeked inside the sling. "ID, in case I gotta drive Jack back to his place, forty bucks for the taxi back to my place if I gotta drive Jack back, uh, apparently a dorito –" She fished the chip out and tossed it over the railing, "Earbuds. Scar cream. Anker battery pack. And this thing."

She pulled the old watch out by its brown leather band, face towards Mac, and gave him an impish smile. "Think it belongs to you."

For a split second, it was two months ago, the night before Turkey ever happened, and Mac was Mac. His face lit up like a little kid, and she handed it over, smiling wider as he turned it over in his hands, making sure it was intact and whole and really his.

"NATO found it in the colonel's manor, along with your wallet, but I didn't figure you were all that attached to Luka Morrow, so –"

"Yeah, no, this is –" He laughed a little, clearly delighted. "This is _amazing_ , Riley. I thought it was gone for good."

He wasted no time in putting it on, and as he stretched his left wrist out of his long-sleeved shirt, she saw the angry red scarring, not too different from her own.

She waited until his father's watch was back where it belonged before she indicated his wrist. "You been using Boze's scar cream?"

He heaved a little sigh, but the second he glanced back at the wrist he grinned again. At the watch, obviously. "Yeah, he's a real stickler about it. Who knew the best skin care products come out of horror makeup kits?"

"Well, it _is_ Hollywood, Land of the Plastic," she reminded him, looking back out over the city. "Not sure what's in the stuff, but it's way helping."

"Yeah, I meant to tell you earlier, it looks like it's healing great. When do you get out of that sling?"

Riley went ahead and put some cream on her neck, just because she knew Boze would ask as soon as he was done playing with his meat. "Another week, maybe two. It doesn't hurt anymore, it's just to keep the weight off the ligament." She screwed the cap back on the small makeup pot. "Then I get to do PT. Yay."

He raised an eyebrow at her less than enthusiastic tone. "The first couple weeks will suck, but it's worth it. You'll probably want to use that arm again someday."

"Yeah, well something tells me my PT won't be nearly as much fun as Cage's was, that's for sure."

Mac glanced at her, curiously, and she smirked. "She got deep tissue massages three times a week from a hot Cambodian masseuse named Keo."

He chuckled. "Yeah, that . . . just sounds awful."

"I know, right?"

They settled into a companionable silence, and Mac surprised her by picking up the beer and taking a swig. They might get a whole twelve ounces into him yet. She understood why he was limiting his alcohol consumption - he still wasn't sleeping. They hadn't exactly talked about it, but now that his face was all healed up, it was hard for him to hide.

He probably wanted to solve that problem first, instead of relying on alcohol to get some shut-eye.

"Still wake up surprised to be home?"

He set the bottle back on the railing. ". . . couple times a week."

So, she could figure it was about twice that. "You can fall asleep, just not stay asleep, right?"

Mac gave her more of his attention, turning to face her and leaning his hip on the railing. "Hey, if you've got a cure for insomnia, I'm all ears."

She smirked. "I'm a hacker, Mac. I don't exactly keep normal hours."

He mulled that over. "Yeah, I guess that's true. You don't have issues with that?"

She snorted. "Nah. Used to, though. Couldn't sleep more than about four hours in a stretch in high school."

He gave her a teasing look. "So that was what, last year?"

"Hah hah. I'm only a couple years younger than you, dude. And I kinda had to learn, when I went to the big house. Had a lot of long nights with nothing to do but count the cracks in the ceiling."

She had no doubts he had some recent experience with that. She also had no doubt that once he woke up, he was finding something productive to do with the time, instead of teaching himself how to sleep like a human again.

"How long'd it take you to adjust?"

Riley took a deep breath, and stared out at the city a moment. "I dunno. Months, probably, but I was fighting a seven year habit at that point. I chipped away at it a minute at a time."

He followed her gaze back out to the view in front of them. "Minute at a time, huh?"

"Hey. One more minute I could stay asleep at a stretch was one more minute not staring at the ceiling." And another day checked off the calendar.

She didn't say that second part, but he seemed to hear it. "Good advice. I'll have to try that."

"No problem. Need any more, I'll be here all night."

Another small smile, at the old comedic reference. "And I should try the veal?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure there's an entire cow in pieces in the kitchen right now. I think Bozer's taking your recovery pretty personally."

Looking at him, she'd guess he dropped somewhere between eighteen to twenty-five pounds during the three weeks he was gone. He'd probably managed to put back about ten of it. You could still see it in his face and his hands. At least his clothes didn't look like they were two sizes too big anymore.

Mac's eyebrows twitched. "Trust me, he's doing a good job. I dunno if any of the chocolate mousse he made Monday night is left, but it was . . ." He trailed off and patted his stomach.

"And I'm glad you liked it," Bozer's voice floated out the door, and Riley turned to see him carrying two platters heaped with burgers, steaks, and vegetable skewers. Jack was right behind him, holding three beers, and he set one down on the grill table for Bozer, and then crossed the deck to hand one to her.

She knocked the neck of the bottle against his, and Jack took a sip, looking out at the clouds.

". . . eh, we got time," he concluded. "Wind'll pop up over that ridge there, give us a little buffer."

Riley blinked at him. "So . . . where'd you get that meteorology degree again?"

Jack gave her a mildly wounded look. "Now I know you know I was raised on a ranch. Guessing how and when a storm was gonna blow through was the difference between gettin' the cows in and gettin' my hind end tanned for _not_ gettin' the cows in."

"Well, I'm pretty sure no one here's going to beat you if Bozer gets a little wet grilling," Mac pointed out reasonably.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Bozer clicked the grilling tongs threateningly a few times. "If the cook ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

"Oh yeah, I heard that one." Jack's eyes unfocused as he thought back. "And Ma had a wooden board hangin' on the wall in the living room, with this big-ass white hen in a blue apron, and a couple little chicks there at the bottom." He grinned at the memory. "It said, I'm the mommy, that's why."

Bozer looked startled. "Damn, I think my gramma had that same thing. But it was needlepoint."

Jack frowned suddenly, and set his beer down on the railing, fishing his buzzing phone out of his pocket. He studied it for a moment, his face serious, before he broke out in a huge grin.

"Hell yeah!" He laughed, then handed her the phone, and Riley transferred her beer to her right hand before accepting it with her left.

"Surgery was a success. Looks like Basha's gonna be okay."

Sure enough, it was a photo from a hospital room. There was a little gypsy boy sitting upright in the bed, with wide, white bandages wrapped around his head, and a little tuft of dark hair sticking out of the top. Beside him was a disapproving-looking woman Riley knew to be Karela – Jack referred to her exclusively as 'Mrs. Goral.' Riley assumed the spry little gypsy himself was the one behind the phone, because Goral wasn't in the picture.

Riley held out the phone so Mac could see, and he glanced at it, then grinned himself. "That's great, Jack."

"You bet it is," he declared, taking his phone back. "Gonna have to do something for Sarah for talkin' them back into that hospital. What do you send someone for that? Like, a fruit basket?" He turned back to her. "Is it cool to send your married ex a fruit basket?"

Riley was in the process of thinking that over when a female voice interrupted. "If it were me, I'd send her that new Sig concealable."

Cage was already on the deck, and Jack showed her the image on the phone like a proud papa. "Is it cool to send your married ex a gun?"

Riley didn't bother to look at Mac – they knew all his opinion. "Well, it _is_ Sarah, so . . ."

She'd probably love it.

Bozer finally got as much of the meat jigsaw on the grill as was possible, and closed the lid with a clang. "Dinner's probably about forty-five minutes from now. There's crudité in the kitchen, and we have some themed cocktails for the evening."

"Ooo, fancy," Riley murmured, and beside her, Mac chuckled.

"Yeah, I guess he kinda misses cooking for a crowd."

It was still hard for her to decide what they could talk about, and what was off limits. "I'm not gonna lie. We ate like kings. He made this awesome spice tea-"

"The cinnamon stuff?" Mac took another sip of his beer.

"That's it. I take it he's made it for you?"

"The french toast version. It was pretty tasty."

She nodded, then grinned as Cage wandered over. "So, how was Vienna?"

The blonde agent – and thank god it was blonde again – tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze felt great, but it was starting to pick up, and Riley wasn't sure Weatherman Jack's prediction was going to hold.

"Vienna is always amazing." Samantha looked remarkably refreshed, considering she'd touched down about four hours ago. "On that topic, do you mind if borrow Mac here for a moment?"

Riley gestured. "He's all yours."

The other blond looked between them quizzically, and then followed Samantha back towards the house. Jack held out a fist as he passed, and Mac bonked the top of it as he went by. Jack was still grinning down at his phone.

"Hey, been meaning to thank you-"

"Again?" Riley transferred her beer back to her left hand. "I told you, Jack. It's cool."

"Nah." He walked over, staring at the image. His eyes were soft. "This is a big deal, Riles. Seriously. Thank you." Then he chuckled. "Look at Mrs. Goral. God, I can't believe Sarah got her to agree to let real doctors touch her son."

He pinched the photo larger, and Riley watched him studying the gypsy woman's face. "Just look at her. That woman poured every kinda nasty tasting muck she could find down my throat, but I wouldn't be here today if she hadn't. It worked, I'll give her that."

Riley gave the phone a neutral look. "What, it wasn't because of all that Jack Dalton blood in your veins?"

"Well, that too," he said dismissively, like it was a given. "Oh, she hates me, Riles. You could see it in her eyes. She looked at me like she thought I was gonna up and boil her family alive. Expected the very worst outta me." He trailed off, and Riley watched his expression melt into something more serious.

"Wonder what happened to her to make her that way."

It could have been any one of a million things. "She's Roma, Jack. That's not an easy life."

He shook his head, and looked like he was going to say something else, but then he clicked the power button and blacked out the screen, slipping the phone into his pocket. "You prolly saved that kid's life, Riley. Thank you."

Riley nodded again, a little uncomfortable, and took a pull on the beer. Jack gusted out a great big sigh, staring out at the city. "Been meanin' to talk to you about something else, too."

A glance told her Bozer had also gone inside, and they were alone on the deck.

Not that that mattered. This _was_ Jack, after all.

"Shoot. Figuratively."

He made an amused noise. "Now, I'd never shoot you, Riley. I was pretty mad, don't get me wrong. Maybe spittin' mad. But never shootin' mad."

Ah. It was finally _that_ time. "So. We finally got to the part where you yell at me for scaring a couple suits in Europe." She shook her head. "They made it sound worse than it really was. I did way more destructive stuff before-"

"Eh, eh, eh." He held up a hand. "I don't wanna know. And no," he added, "you know I couldn't care less about giving ol' Vlad a black eye. He knows better than to call Matty, she'd just make him apologize again." He sighed, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Riley . . . you can't . . . you can't do that again. You _do_ know that, right?"

She grinned. "Hack a country's healthcare system? 'Cuz I kind of can, Jack, pretty much any time I want-"

"That ain't what I'm talking about and you know it." His tone was more serious. "Riley, I appreciate it, sweetheart, I do, and I'll never forget it, but –"

"But nothing." She gave him a challenging look. "I've been working at the Phoenix, what, about two years now? We've stopped a nuclear war. Helped overthrow dictators. Stopped ecological disasters, and terrorist plots, and every time we do, it's by seconds, and if we screwed it up, even a little –" She stopped.

Then people would have died.

"That is exactly my point." He turned to face her. "Riley, for two years you've seen ops go way better than they ever had a right to go. Yeah, we screwed the pooch a few times." He very tactfully didn't remind her about the handheld EMP she'd allowed to parachute out of a cargo plane. "But we got lucky, Riley. That's all that was. Luck."

She shook her head. "No, Jack. It wasn't just luck-"

"Now, see," and he waved a hand in the air, "that's exactly what I'm talkin' about. You got two years of this under your belt. I got two decades. What happened in Greece . . . that's how things usually go. That's how fast an op goes sideways, and that's what one mistake – just one – costs."

His eyes were on her sling.

She could see where this was headed from a mile away. "What if it was Mac? Huh?" It kinda had been, and his face seemed to say as much, so she elaborated. "What if it was Mac in that box, it was Mac's body you couldn't find. You're going to stand here and tell me you'd just give up? You wouldn't rip Europe apart looking for him? Or me? Or Boze?"

Jack pretended to give that some thought. "Well, Boze now, that's another story –"

She swatted him on the shoulder, and didn't care if she spilled the beer.

"Riley, you know I would, but the difference is, I been around the block a few times. You don't think I ran straight into lead showers goin' back for my boys in the sandbox? You don't think I ever ignored orders, snuck onto transports, lied about what I was doin' there, blamed Russia – cause yeah, that Russia part was all you." And he gave her a dark look. "The difference here is that I learned that when somethin' looks like a duck, and walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a damn duck."

Then he frowned. "Unless it's a flare gun," he muttered. "Point is –"

She waved her hand at him, trying to cut him off. "I get your point, Jack. I should have just cried my eyes out and believed you were dead and let you get found by Colonel Aydin. Right. Because I'm too young to understand the way the world works."

"Now, I didn't say that-"

"Yes, you did," she shot back. "I think I got a pretty good idea how the world works, Jack. I hacked the NSA. Do you think what I was looking for was just lying there tagged 'This is for Riley Davis'? What do you think is on the dark web, Jack? You think someone has to march off to war to see all the terrible shit that happens?"

In his day and age, they probably actually did. "We have the internet, Jack. All the horrors of the world are just a few clicks away."

He was looking at her like he didn't know what to say. "Look, I know you haven't had it easy-"

Trust him to misunderstand. "Jack! This isn't about you leaving, or Elwood, or any of that. This isn't even about the fact that you didn't give up on me when I gave you plenty of reasons." Though, it kinda really was. A little bit. "I get it. Okay? I know that what you do is dangerous. That what we do is dangerous. I knew what it looked like. And maybe at first it was denial, but the fact is we couldn't find a body. That would be good enough for you, and it's always going to be good enough for me."

He glared at her, then sighed. "'Cause we don't get to choose what we mean to someone else, right?"

Of _course_ he'd been listening. "That's right."

The glare softened into grudging respect. "I ever tell you how damn proud I am of you?"

"More than a grown man probably should."

Jack put an arm around her, and Riley let him.

"I just worry about you. You know? If Sarah hadn't a been there-"

Then none of them would have walked out of that villa. It would be a memorial for eight agents, instead of four.

"Jack . . . you do know supermax sucked, right?"

He chuckled silently; she could feel his chest shaking. "Yeah, Riley. I do."

"Trust me. I like this better. Even with the knife-throwing assholes."

Jack was quiet a moment. "Speaking of, I know Patty was givin' you a little instruction. I'm sure Matty'd do the same."

Riley pulled her head back to look at him. "Matty?"

He nodded, with no trace of humor. "Oh yeah. She'll put you flat on a mat before you even see her comin'. She goes for the knees." He bent his to demonstrate.

Riley continued to give him a skeptical look. "Yeah, well, hand to hand is part of the classes I'm already taking, so I think I'll just stick with that."

"Okay."

"Okay," she agreed.

He gave her a little squeeze, and she relented, and rested her head on his shoulder a moment.

"So, you know what Cage wanted with Mac?"

Certainly nothing related to her mission in Vienna. That had been straight recon, one little piece of a long term gig targeting an illegal weapons ring. "Nope. All her intel came back this morning, bunch of Croatian nationals. Mostly middle men. Don't think they have any ties to any of your old ops."

He hmmed, then released her and turned for the grill. "Boze ain't careful, this stuff is gonna burn-"

"Don't you touch my grill!"

-M-

Sometimes they just made it _too_ easy.

Boze knew it, too, because he held up the hamburger flipper. "And if you go there, the only thing you're gettin' is grilled zucchini. You read me?"

Jack held up his hands in surrender. "Won't get in your face. Comprende, mi amigo." Then he glanced into the house. "You put the wings in the oven?"

"Now where the hell you think I been for the last ten minutes?"

" . . . makin' drinks?"

Bozer gave him a long look, but it morphed quickly into a smile. "Yes I was. I call 'em the Mojito Mule. Don't forget the cucumber slice."

Jack gave him a two-fingered salute and walked back into the house. A mere ten years ago, you didn't need any veggie besides bloody mary mix to make a drink. It was a brave new world, indeed.

Cage and Mac were in there, standing on the far side of the living room towards the bedrooms. Neither of them looked terribly upset, and they were speaking in low voices. Jack figured the row of copper mugs and the pitcher of a mostly clear hooch full of mint leaves was the aforementioned mule, and he poured himself one while staring at a plate of thinly sliced, neatly arranged cucumber.

Jack regarded them a moment, then picked up a slice and put it in his mouth.

They weren't even salted. They were just cucumbers.

He turned to find Cage most of her way to him, so he offered her the mug he'd just poured. "Something about cucumbers," he added, and she accepted the mug with a smile, and selected a cucumber slice as well, dropping it in the drink.

"Thank you," she murmured, and she sampled it while he poured himself another mug.

Jack fished out what he decided was an excessive amount of mint leaf, taking a second to glance at Mac. The kid didn't look like anything earth-shattering had happened in the last few minutes, but he did disappear down the hall, and Jack knew he was busted when Samantha delicately cleared her throat.

"So how is he?"

Jack took a gulp of the mule. Basically a mojito with ginger beer.

Oh. And rum. There was rum. Quite a lot of it.

Jack swallowed it, then inspected the copper mug again. For a fru fru drink, it wasn't terrible.

"Mac?" he said, just to be sure they were on the same page.

"Yes, Mac." She seemed willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, winding her fingers around the copper mug like it was a coffee.

"You tell me." He took another draught of the drink, still not quite sure what the point of the cucumber was. "You used to do that very thing, didn'cha?"

Might as well be direct.

Cage's eyebrows quirked, and she watched him over the lip of the mug. "No. My focus was short-term interrogation. They were playing the long game on Mac."

Nothing he didn't already know, though he was still a little fuzzy on the why. "How long is the long game typically played?"

"Longer than three weeks." She glanced down the hallway, where Mac had disappeared. "He's lucky. And he seems to be adjusting very well, considering."

Jack wondered how much of Mac's file she'd been privy to. Her knowledge of the type and focus of the interrogation would be useful, but near as he could tell Oversight still hadn't come down one way or the other on whether the ex-SASR agent was going to be remaining part of Phoenix.

He didn't have a seat at that table. Best he could manage was to slip a card into Matty's hand. Outside of what he'd said during his debriefing, there wasn't much else he could do for Samantha.

"If you're wondering how much more I know than you do, it's not much."

Damned woman was a mind reader.

"And if you're wondering what I told him, I merely made a couple recommendations to help him cope."

Jack turned and leaned against the counter, choosing to stare out on the deck rather than get caught watching the hallway. "You can't just run down the PTSD shortlist with him, Cage. Those techniques are way too close to what he already does."

She smiled. It even touched her eyes. Jack was pretty sure it was fake. "I would never recommend cognitive processing therapy for someone like Mac. He's far too green." Jack glanced at her, and she managed to look completely unsurprised that he had no idea what that meant. "Green is a color we assign certain Myers-Briggs personality types. Mac controls his world with facts and logic. The scientific method is his religion. He wholeheartedly believes he's looking at his guilt without bias. It's truth to him. No amount of reframing will break him of that thought habit."

She took a sip of the mule, like what she had just said was perfectly obvious. "I recommended active coping and mindfulness. He's been conditioned not to sleep, so the research will give him something soothing and familiar to occupy his early morning hours, and like any good scientist, he'll try out the method and document his results."

Jack thought about that. As frequently as he played the dumb card, post traumatic stress disorder was a real, serious thing, and he'd put in the time and learned as much about it as he could. He'd seen a lot of men fucked up, permanently, by the sandbox. Some of 'em so bad they never left, and a bullet seemed better than a fifteen hour flight home.

He knew about active coping, and as far as Mac was concerned, that was pointless. It was something Mac already did; he'd been doing it since he was a kid. The paperclips. If he needed to figure out a problem, if he was stressed or doubtful, he molded that problem out of a paperclip, and then he could hold it in his hand and see it, see how small it was.

Mindfulness, on the other hand, that had merit. Getting him out of his brain and into the present, where there was less _might've_ and more did and did not. And she wasn't wrong; his boy loved to learn stuff. Cramming more facts into his brain was definitely the kind of quiet hobby you were supposed to work on if you couldn't catch those damn sheep.

Further, actually going through concrete exercises, which most mindfulness books provided, would give Mac the framework he loved so much to chart progress.

And that was really what he needed, more than anything else. He needed to be able to see that he was making progress. Mac kept thinking that one day he was just gonna stop flinching, and didn't recognize any steps along the way. It was either on or off to him.

"Watch him, Jack." Samantha turned for the deck. "He'll tend towards risk taking, particularly if Matty puts him back in the field, to prove to himself that he's capable. Make sure he doesn't go too far."

"I'll make sure he's careful."

And what the hell was that, _if_ Matty put him back in the field. 'Course he was going back into the field. That was what he wanted, that was what he'd get.

"I know how alien that concept is to you," she added, tossing a teasing smile over her shoulder, and Jack gave her a dirty look.

"I'll have you know I am very careful, when I need to be-"

"Yeah, you're Mr. Jack Careful Careful." Mac had emerged from the back hallway, and Jack raised the copper mug in his direction.

"Yes I am, thank you for noticing."

His friend shook his head. "You realize that right after you made that statement, you knelt down literally on top of an IED. Not even to the side, the actual center-"

"Hey, I was looking for a good position to cover _your_ slow ass –"

Jack reached for an empty mug, but Mac shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't think I'm up for drinking cucumbers tonight."

"Yeah, man, what is with that, anyway?" Since his attention had already been drawn back to the plate, Jack picked up another one.

Nothing wrong with cucumbers. They were just premature pickles.

Mac circled the island, scanning it for a moment before grabbing a small plate and loading it up with all the staples of a Bozer crudité display: raw veggies, various dips, cheese and crackers, and cold meats. Of course, Mac went for the veggies, no dip, no cheese, no crackers, and no cold meats.

Jack shook his head. "Can't build muscle with rabbit food."

Mac gave him a look and, maintaining eye contact, reached down and grabbed two rectangles of cheese. "Calcium. Happy?"

"Thrilled."

Mac shook his head again, heading back around the counter, and Jack held out the mug, stopping him. "Been thinking about what you said earlier. In the gym."

Mac cocked an eyebrow, inviting him to continue, so he did.

"Look, I know you're bored, man, waiting to get reinstated. Got a lot of time to just sit around and think."

Mac popped a slice of red pepper in his mouth.

"Seems to me what you need is something to look forward to."

Mac mulled that over for a minute. "You mean like a vacation?" He looked pointedly around the house. "And that's different from this . . . exactly how?"

"No, not a staycation." Though a destination vacation might be just what the doctor ordered, at the very least it would get him out of his head for a little while. "A moment of truth."

Mac was watching him, now. He knew what that term meant, to Jack, and Jack had used it intentionally. Because that was kinda what it was. "Yeah. You heard me. What we're gonna do is get a baseline of where we are right now – you and me, limp and scrawny ass and all – and we're gonna put it on paper."

". . . gee, that sounds really fun, Jack."

Jack grinned at Mac's monotone reply. "Then, we're gonna work on it. You know, like we been working on it these last couple weeks, but this time like we mean it. Come two months from now, we're gonna run those same tests, that same course . . ." He glanced around the kitchen, his eyes falling on the twelve month calendar they had on the wall. About two months put them –

"Well hell. Thanksgiving Day."

Mac followed his gaze to the calendar. "Thanksgiving Day, you want to run an o-course."

Jack gave him a broad grin. "Oh _hells_ yeah. Don't you? Maybe throw in a little range action, a little two on two . . ."

His grin was infectious; despite himself, Mac was starting to smile. "Well, you know . . . I _do_ love a good obstacle course –"

"Damn right you do! What could be more fun! Work up a sweat, beat our old record, come back and eat our weight in turkey . . . come on, man. Whaddaya say?"

His partner looked at the calendar another moment, clearly putting several days' worth of conversations together, but he didn't say anything about it, or call him on it. He just held out a fist.

"Alright. Let's do it."

-M-

"Come on in. Have a seat."

Matty inclined her head politely at the invitation, scanning the room. It was just the three of them. The statuesque African-American woman behind the sleek contemporary stainless steel desk, and her foil, in his perfectly tailored suit, choosing the more casual cube-like couch.

Her instinct was to choose to stand, which put her still below their seated heights, but superior in terms of overall presence. Then again, she'd been asked to take a seat.

Actually, she'd been _told_ to take a seat. There hadn't been much of a question in that offer.

Matty chose one of the two chairs at the desk, which were just as contemporary as the rest of the furniture, and constructed of rounded logs of upholstered foam in an artful curl. Not terribly difficult to get into, which she appreciated.

The Amazon gave her a brief, cold smile. "This is just a formality, Matilda, to make sure we check all the boxes. I have just a few questions."

"Of course." That was all there was to say. It wasn't as if the woman had a title.

Or a name.

"I'd like to start with . . ." She glanced at the desk, which appeared to be completely bare, yet now Matty could see was a large, flat touchscreen. She had a variety of reports, but they were in piles, like real pieces of paper might have been, and Matty glanced ever so briefly at the organizational style before she brought her gaze up, making her expression attentive.

"Camp Bondsteel."

That wasn't a question, and Matty waited patiently.

"It seems your Agent MacGyver did turn over codes used to disable the Raytheon system used to protect not only weapons and staff, but also multiple high value persons of interest to the United States."

"Yes," she agreed. "We noted Raytheon's failure to update their administrative passwords in our recommendations to Raytheon after we closed our investigation into their breach. I'm confident that particular oversight – you'll pardon the term," she added with a cold smile of her own, "will not be repeated. As for the UN credentials that allowed Lieutenant Kenan Yavuz and his team onto the base to use the codes, our investigation led us to the State Department before we were ordered to stand down."

The Amazon raised a perfectly manicured brow. "And did you ever determine the true perpetrator of the Raytheon breach?"

Matty met her eyes steadily. "We did not. The hacker, whoever they are, is skilled."

"Was there any evidence of that hacker at the colonel's manor?"

"Not to my knowledge. We think it may have been a freelancer who became sympathetic to the Turkish youth movement. General Doukas' influence and finances run deep. That investigation is still ongoing."

"Is there any evidence that hack was executed by Agent MacGyver?"

"Not his wheelhouse," Matty responded immediately. Boy Genius was many things, but his hacking was geared to much more rudimentary things. Like cars, planes, and apparently missiles.

The Amazon bowed her head back to her desktop, flicking a bundle of files off to her left like she was flicking a crumb from a tablecloth.

"He has no memory of enabling Colonel Aydin's men to track the NATO fleet stationed in the Sea of Marmara, nor of alerting the Phoenix to his situation."

That was a statement of fact, and Matty saw no reason to respond.

"Given the timeline of events after the first transponder pings were identified by the fleet, there were several days that Agent MacGyver could have been compelled to accomplish further tasks for them, or to reveal intelligence."

"Yet he remembers disarming a suicide vest during that timeframe," Matty pointed out. "That leads me to believe the technique used to compel him had a half-life, and required physical breaks. That has been corroborated by our own interrogators."

"Or they simply didn't want him to be aware of or able to measure the time he was losing," came a male voice from behind her.

Matty didn't bother to turn and look at the man in the suit. "They routinely interrogated him to the point of unconsciousness. I can think of no reason they would take the special step of having him complete something as complex as a bomb disarming just to provide him an anchor point."

"I agree," the Amazon added. "If the supposition that Major Salih Oguzhan followed Agent Cage and her team back to the villa after the recovery of Agent Dalton is true, they would have been too careful to play with their food. The autopsy of the American civilian and her French paramour definitively put the major in the timeshare in line with that supposition."

Matty didn't even blink.

It wasn't often one half of Oversight openly contradicted the other.

"Still, there are dozens of hours unaccounted for," the man in the suit pressed. "Even if they had been employing more traditional means, they could have compelled the agent to reveal intelligence that he does not remember surrendering."

"With respect, we've confirmed the deaths of all of the _Bordo Berrililer_ associated with the colonel. Their servers, technology, and vast majority of holdings are currently under NATO control. If Agent MacGyver provided them further intelligence, it's six feet underground."

The Amazon focused on another set of icons. "I have confirmations on only three dead. The other, Sergeant Kadir Hakan, whom Agent MacGyver identified as his primary interrogator, is unconfirmed."

Matty inclined her head, once. "A body too burned to identify, in one of the jeeps taken out by artillery fire during the raid, matches the sergeant's height, weight, and blood type. Dental records could not be confirmed due to the condition of the body, and as you know, none of the _Bordo Berrililer_ wear any other type of identification."

The male half of Oversight tsked. "With their contracted hacker still unidentified, it's too soon to say what intelligence may have been retained."

Which was, unfortunately, a good point. "The same nets we have in place currently to monitor for leaked classified information will catch it. If the hacker attempts to sell anything on the black market, we identify them and the buyer, and secure the intel."

She wasn't worried about anything else Mac might have told them. Aydin's aspirations hadn't been world domination. He just wanted to get rid of Erdogan.

"Agent MacGyver's record has been, to this point, exemplary." The Amazon sounded thoughtful. "He's valuable, if he's still undamaged and obedient."

"He's the human equivalent of a labradoodle puppy," Matty assured her. "That's why he's partnered with Agent Dalton."

The Amazon studied her. "Your labradoodle piddled all over a valuable Turkish rug."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't have left him locked up so long," Matty observed politely.

"I wonder, would he have turned on his master if we had left him longer still?"

This time, Matty graced the male half of Oversight with a look. "There was a contingency in place, should the recovery op have failed. Agent MacGyver was leaving with us or not at all."

She turned back calmly to the Amazon, who flicked an invisible piece of paper towards her. "You're referring to your orders issued two days before the recovery operation?"

"I am."

It too was cast aside, another crumb. "I have no other questions regarding Agent MacGyver."

From the couch, there was a quiet sigh. "Nor do I."

Two more piles of documents, that as far as Matty could tell had never been referenced, were also flicked to the crumb pile.

"It is not the mission of this agency to meddle openly in the politics of sovereign nations."

That was a statement, and Matty continued to look attentive. After a moment, the Amazon continued.

"Your agents drew far too much attention, particularly for the recovery of an agent declared KIA."

"Yes, Agent Davis was overly ambitious," Matty agreed.

"Are you going to compare her to a German shepherd, perhaps? A pitbull?"

Pitbull wasn't far off the mark. Not that she was going to tell the man in the suit that. "Agent Davis is a very capable woman with a skillset we require. She's young and impetuous, and I dare say she learned her lesson."

A digital page was transferred to the middle of the desktop. "You lost four agents recovering two, Matilda. Even I can do that math."

Matty gave her a wide smile. "We lost four agents investigating the assassination by terrorists of a US diplomat, his wife, and his young daughter, as well as unveiling a mole in the State Department that was otherwise completely undetected, and we revealed a massive breach into one of the top three military contractors the US employs. Recovering two agents was secondary to those objectives."

"And if your remaining agents had been arrested by NATO forces, you would have disavowed them?"

Matty simply inclined her head. "There was nothing unusual about the recovery operation at the manor. We regularly exfiltrate CIA, NSA and military targets without permission on allied territory."

The two halves of Oversight considered that. It was the man in the suit that challenged her. "Yes. It seems you forged a close relationship with NATO during this operation. Strategic Commander Ian Ives was very satisfied with your level of collaboration."

If Jack hadn't come clean about that earlier in the afternoon, she might have been blindsided.

But he had. And she wasn't.

"I thought it was about time we formed a decent relationship with that organization. NATO is taking a more active role in Middle East security. A bottle of scotch can go a long way."

The Amazon glanced at the man in the suit, and after a moment, inclined her head. "I agree."

Matty didn't bother to turn around. It didn't matter what the man in the suit thought. Oversight had to be unanimous in disagreement to terminate her contract.

"Regardless, mistakes were made. This is your second black mark, Director. You don't want to earn a third."

Matty did her level best to look contrite. "Of course not."

"I presume the appropriate disciplinary actions will be taken."

Matty inclined her head. "They're already in process."

"Very good. I think that wraps us up."

The woman brushed all but one pile of virtual files off her desktop, and Matty nodded again, as an excuse to cast her eyes towards it, and then dismounted the chair.

"Good evening," and she made eye contact with both of them before proceeding out the office door.

-M-

Slight spoiler for the last episode – looks like I made Jack a little too old. If he graduated in '93, that makes him 42 in 2017. I figured he was pushing fifty. Oh well. I guess I'll clean it up when this monster is finally finished. Also, he can't have met Mac during his first tour if he joined the Army after high school, unless Delta training is crazy long. Whoops.

You guys probably already figured it out, but this thing is winding up. There's a couple more things to cover. In summary: Jack and company are being there for Mac, and in typical Mac fashion, he's tolerating them, and maybe even listening, just a little bit. Riley and Jack have come to an agreement regarding how far she went to get Jack back. Jack and Cage had a little heart to heart on how best to handle Mac. And Matty has met with Oversight and successfully defended her op and her people – with a little help from Jack.

(Though I wonder which agent it was she ordered to take Mac out if it looked like they couldn't get him back . . . ;)


	27. Chapter 27

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

Bozer sat bolt upright, his heart thudding in his ears, and he stared blindly into the darkness. He had a half memory of a -

There was a muffled crash, and the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.

Bozer froze for another second, and then looked at the clock on his bedstand. The green digits glowed 1:23 AM.

He strained his ears, but he couldn't hear anything over the murmur of rain sluicing down the roof. There was no sound from inside the house. No footsteps. No doors opening or closing. Quietly, he slipped out of bed, putting on his house shoes – because glass – and grabbing the baseball bat out of the corner – because Murdoc – and he crept to his bedroom door, and slowly turned the handle.

The hallway was dark. There was no extra light by the front door that would indicate it had been forced open and Mr. Schwartz's garden lanterns were shining into the house. The only light was –

Was a strip under Mac's door.

Bozer continued cautiously – because Murdoc – and stared down the hallway for a long moment before he tapped hesitantly on his roommate's bedroom door.

"Hey, Mac . . . you up?"

There was no reply.

Bozer gave the rest of the house a final, hard stare, and then he gently turned the handle of Mac's door, and he pushed it open.

The only light in the room was the neon sign above Mac's bed – Boutique Guitar Exchange – and it was more than sufficient to show him that Mac was sitting on the edge of the full-sized mattress, with his head in his hands. He didn't move a muscle as Bozer pushed the door open, and he got it about halfway before he heard glass catch and scratch along the wood floor.

Wilt stopped immediately, but the door was open enough for him to ease through, and he glanced at Mac again – who still hadn't moved – and then craned his neck around and looked behind the door.

What was left of Mac's bedside lamp was there, in pieces. Even the lampshade was busted. The drywall behind the door was dented from the impact.

Bozer looked back at his friend, and then carefully leaned the baseball bat against the hallway wall, out of sight.

"Hey, Mac . . . everything good in here?"

There wasn't any blood or anything on him, at least not visible on the white undershirt or his blue checkered boxers. The sheets had clearly been thrown off in a rush, they were half off the mattress. The only sound in the room was the buzz of the neon sign, and the quiet gurgle of the rain, draining down the gutter outside his bedroom windows.

Mac didn't answer. His fingers were raked through his hair, and Bozer could barely tell he was even breathing.

"Well, I think the lamp's had it," he proclaimed, keeping his tone light. "I'll just get a broom –"

"Leave it, man." Mac's voice was ever so slightly husky. "I'll . . . get it in the morning."

"It _is_ the morning."

Still no movement on the bed. ". . . sorry, Boze. Didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's all good," he assured him, and withdrew. He flicked on a few lights – because Murdoc – and spent a good ten minutes getting everything ready, and giving his roomie a little time to get his shit together. Then he grabbed the broom out of the closet and shuffled back down the hallway, making enough noise to be heard over the rain.

The door was still open, just as he'd left it, and Bozer poked his head back in to find that MacGyver hadn't budged. Bozer turned his back on him, sweeping the remains of the lamp as far against the wall as possible, because Mac typically wandered around barefoot and besides, there was no reason to scratch up the hardwood floors any more than he already had.

"So, I don't think either one of us is gettin' any more sleep tonight, and I been meaning to get your opinion on somethin' anyway. When you're done in here, come find me, wouldja?"

No response from the bed, which he hadn't really expected, and Bozer collected the broom and the baseball bat and headed back to the living room.

It was another fifteen or so minutes before Mac finally padded into the living room, and by then Bozer had already filled out most of the first two sheets. He gave Mac ample time to figure out what was going on, and once he'd written down the director's name in the appropriate blank, he looked up with a wily grin.

It looked like Mac had splashed some water on his face - his hair was still a little damp - and his expression was a cross between absolutely neutral, and slightly apprehensive.

Boze gave him a shrug. "Come on, man. We look at the Hollywood Shorts Film Festival entries every August. With everythin' goin' on, I just been waitin' for the right time, and . . ." He gestured to the seat beside him.

Everything was in place. He'd scooted the coffee table closer to the couch to support easy snacking and foot propping. There were two bowls of multicolored M&Ms, and one giant bowl of popcorn, freshly popped in coconut oil. A couple cold ones were staged and ready to go, as well as a neat stack containing a pre-loaded clipboard, a mechanical pencil, an art eraser, a graphing calculator, a compass, and a straight-edge.

Mac just stared at the setup, and Bozer made his eyes rounder. "Come on, man. Who else can calculate those camera angles on the fly? What if the next Wachowskis are in this batch?"

Mac approached, though it was with obvious reluctance. "Then you'd be ripping them off," he pointed out. "Boze, I don't think I'm up for-"

"Sugar, salt, beer, and the most beautiful and terrible movie marathon of the year?" He almost wiggled with excitement. "Come on, man. Just one. I know you're gonna love it. The title is, I kid you not, _Un Pedo en el Viento_."

Mac thought that through, then his eyebrows twitched, and Bozer chuckled. "Yeah, man, you translated that right. _A Fart in the Wind_."

Almost unwillingly, Mac snorted. Then he gave up, and picked up his allotted materials, plopping onto the couch beside him. Bozer killed the lamp, so only the glow of the flatpanel – and the LED backlight strip they'd installed to reduce eyestrain – lit the living room. He'd left the light on over the sink, for the inevitable beer run, but the room was dim enough to see any cool visual tricks, and not so dark that it could become even slightly creepy.

He'd already called up the DVR, and he took a deep, satisfied breath, and hit play.

"Let the greatness begin!"

The film festival required all its finalists to submit the gear and software they used for production. So he already had a list of the cameras, lenses, and tracks the directors had used. He left the cheat sheet on the coffee table, in easy reach of the both of them, and he popped a handful of M&Ms and watched with interest as the director manually adjusted the lens from oversaturation to a sad little field of half-dead ragweed flowers.

Then he leaned forward, snagged his beer, and wedged it in between the armrest and the couch cushion, where it was in easy reach. As an afterthought, he grabbed a small jar off the side table, and passed it to his right.

His roommate sighed, audibly, and Bozer shook the makeup pot at him, never taking his eyes off the screen. Mac finally took it from him, and Bozer heard him unscrew the lid.

"Or else it gets the hose again, huh?"

Bozer chuckled at the reference. "You'll thank me someday." Nothing helped reduce visible scarring like keeping the skin moisturized. He might eventually have to have plastic surgery, but the more they could do for his skin now, the less they'd have to fix later.

It took Mac a few minutes to get into the film, but he finally leaned forward, exchanging the scar cream for his beer, and helped himself to the popcorn. Nothing too exciting happened, until Edwardo came to the climax, where he was forced to choose between his high school love, Lily, or his familial obligation to the poppy fields. The sheet didn't say a damn thing about drones, but they got a perfect, bird's eye view of the poppy fields, and it had to be at least fifty feet up.

Bozer paused it. "They do that with a crane?"

Mac was already scribbling on his pad. "How tall would you say that guy is?"

"Uh . . ." He rewound it to when Edwardo had walked out of the school gymnasium. It was basically a full-on shot, head to toe, and showed his height in relation to the doorframe.

It should be to code, although it was Mexican code, and Bozer pulled out his phone. " . . . school gymnasium door should be eight feet, two inches."

Mac eyeballed the distance, then did some quick math, his fingers dancing over the calculator. The compass came out. "Take us back to the field?"

Bozer fast forwarded back to the money shot, and paused it where the most shadows were visible. Then he referred to the equipment chart again.

"That looks like morning light to me. So . . " He looked at the guy's shadow. "I dunno, you figure nine am?"

"Where was this shot?"

"Uh . . . outside Monterrey." He handed over his phone, which was on a Google map, and his roomie pinched it smaller, until he could see the equator. Then he frowned.

"Well, if it was a crane, it was . . . seventy-three feet up."

Bozer whistled. "How'd you think they stabilized the camera? Hand ropes?"

Mac looked back at the TV. "I dunno. Let it play."

The production was pretty sound, no shadow to give away the rigging, and they were both watching so closely they jumped when Edwardo was unceremoniously taken out by a bullet, with his brain spattering the suddenly brighter red poppies.

"Wait . . . " Mac tossed back a couple M&Ms, and crunched them as he studied the screen. "Those aren't even _Papaver somniferum_ anymore. Those are tulips. Did we just end up in Holland?"

Bozer glanced back at the director's notes. "Nope. I'm gonna say, botanical garden."

Mac gave him a dubious look. "Yeah, this is not a winner."

"Nope," Bozer agreed, and he hit the menu button on the remote. While the DVR was searching, he pulled the first page off his clipboard, moving on to the second film, and passed the appropriate equipment sheet to Mac, who accepted it, and made a note at the top.

They were like a well-oiled machine.

"It was the rain," Bozer decided aloud. "First time it's rained since we got back. Splashing in the gutter." That was what had triggered Mac's nightmare. Or flashback. Or whatever it was that had made him shout and chuck the lamp.

The pencil never faltered. ". . . yes it was."

Bozer sucked a piece of popcorn out of his teeth. "Well, I guess we can move the gutter tomorrow . . ."

"Nope." Mac referred to the master key, getting the director's name to put on the sheet as well.

"Mac, it's supposed to rain again later this week."

His roommate didn't respond.

". . . when I take a shower, does that bug you?"

"Nope."

"Huh." Maybe the kind of splashing was different. They had all the photos NATO had taken of the manor, as part of their investigation, and the room Mac had been interrogated in had been easy to identify. By the big-ass metal table in it, and the bucket. And what looked like dried blood on the stone floor. He was going to have to look at those photos again, figure out that sound. Maybe get a quick recording of it in Mac's room when he wasn't looking.

The DVR menu finally came up, and he scrolled until he found the second entry. "So who was that in your room, that you clobbered with the lamp?" But if the gurgling water is what set him off, then he kinda already knew. "It was the sergeant, wasn't it. Hakan."

The interrogation specialist of the Maroon Berets. The one Mac called his 'shadow.'

The room darkened as the TV faded to the black title screen, and he heard Mac sigh, and then fish his beer out of the couch. " . . . yeah."

The smallest little white dot appeared in the black, growing steadily larger, until it was clearly a word. Just four letters, but intentionally pixelated and distorted, and when it was finally brought into dramatic focus, they both stared at the screen for a second, and burst out laughing.

_FRED_

Unfortunately, it wasn't about a cockroach. It also wasn't that good. Mostly a character study, and in crazy macro, so there wasn't much need for his roommate's geometric and trigonometric services. The Ultra 4K was pretty impressive, in that Bozer could literally see the pores in the actor's freckles, but honestly, the guy's face was starting to remind him a little bit of the surface of Mars.

He finally shook his head. "I think we can abandon this one –"

But then he realized his roomie already had.

Mac was still holding the pencil, but his fingers were relaxed, and his head was pillowed deep in the worn leather cushions of the sofa. He was still pointed in the general direction of the TV, but his eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and even.

Bozer felt his lips curl up, and he gusted out a quiet sigh. "You know, we could do real justice to a film called Fred. I mean, we'd have to change a few details, like why there were suddenly a bunch of people in his warehouse and all, but I think we could make it work. A heartwarming film from the perspective of a mutantly large and terrifying cockroach."

The third film was titled _Urgent Fury_ and was apparently a vignette about the US invasion of Grenada, so Boze excluded it from the list for probably including gunfire and explosions, which Mac sure as hell didn't need to hear. Then there was one with the title in Arabic, and he thought it might sound a little Turkish, which was a no. But number three seemed pretty safe. A dusty little gas station in Arizona. No explosions, gunfire, splashing, or Turkish.

Bozer eyed his mostly empty beer. "Just you and me, buddy. Into the breach we go."

-M-

He opened his eyes, and for a brief second MacGyver had no idea where he was.

Mac blinked, picking up his head, and the living room slowly came into focus. It was after dawn, the sun was on the other side of the house and the deck was still in shade, but there was plenty of light.

He'd fallen asleep on the couch.

And he'd slept til morning.

The TV was still on, in screen saver mode, so the DVR splashscreen had been reduced to a small rectangle and was bouncing around the frame of the screen. Both M&M bowls had been hit hard, and the popcorn was nearly gone. There were more beer bottles than he remembered, three on the coffee table next to Bozer, and Mac reached down into the couch cushion to grab his own, in case it spilled when he got up.

There was a navy fleece on top of him, up to his chin.

And there was no sign of his beer.

Mac turned his head, unsurprised to find that Boze was still there, beside him. He had on the green fleece throw, though it had slipped to his lap at some point, and even underneath it Mac could see the clipboard was still there, and papers everywhere. They were on the coffee table too, a few with notes on the side that just said "MAC" and a timestamp.

He smiled, just a little, and then shook his head, and tried to untangle himself from the blanket and couch without waking up his best friend.

-M-

**ROUGHLY TWO MONTHS LATER**

"Mac, where are you?"

One benefit of being about sixty stories up in an unfinished high-rise – their coms worked _great._

"I'm on – uh-" His quick jog brought him back around to the main elevator bays, and the floor number was spraypainted on the wall - in Arabic, which was the same number system used in the United States. That being said, he couldn't make out the second number. "I think sixty-two?"

Leaving just twenty skeletal stories above him, ready to come crashing down on Almas Tower.

"Guys, the evacuation of Almas Tower has only just started. The nuclear disarmament delegation is still inside the building."

"Yeah, well, Cage, being inside the building or outside the building's not gonna matter much, unless they're at least eight city blocks out." He hated to be the bearer of even more bad news, but unfortunately it was true. "This tower's not fully constructed, it lacks the structural integrity and reinforcement necessary to come down cleanly. Uh . . . think of a really tall and unstable Jenga tower, when it comes down –"

"-it makes a bigger mess than it would if we hadn't swiss cheesed it," Riley finished. "We need to increase the evacuation perimeter-"

"We can't let it come down at all!" Matty's voice was sharp. "Find those demolition charges!"

Mac opened his mouth, too frustrated to even answer, lapping the elevator bay and keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling.

The elevator shaft was the backbone of the tower, and where much of the building's current load was borne. The United Arab Emirates were big on putting their tall towers near the coastline, so they had to drill deep anchor points into the stable bedrock beneath the waterline. Whoever wanted to topple this thing onto Almas Tower, they were going to have to sever that backbone.

"Jack, any luck?"

It took his partner a second to come back. "Not yet. But I think I got-"

A bullet pinged off steel, and it took Mac a second too long to realize it hadn't come over coms.

The second slug chipped the concrete right next to his left ear, and Mac ducked with a yelp, then bolted behind the support column on his right. He got there just in time.

"Mac!"

He flinched away from more flying concrete, wiping what he hoped was only dust out of his left eye and scanning the area. It was a construction site, there were –

Coils of eight gauge electrical wire, concrete acid wash and etching solvent, sheet plastic, and an upended bucket.

"Mac!"

"I'm good," he called back, over two more gunshots, in rapid succession. Maybe more than one shooter. He hadn't even gotten a glimpse yet.

"Where you at, man?"

MacGyver waited for the next round of fire, then made a run for it, keeping as low as he could. He snagged the plastic bucket on his way to the next support column, and glanced out to where there should have been walls and glass – if the tower had been fully constructed.

Which it wasn't. So there were just huge rectangles of nothing between him and the Dubai skyline.

"Northeast corner."

He fished the swiss army knife out of his pocket, puncturing the gallon container of solvent and dumping it hole-down into the bucket to empty, and took the bucket with him to the next column, where he slung a coil of 8-gauge aluminum wire over his shoulder. From there, a handy rolling dumpster bought him some temporary cover and got him to the section where the plastic sheeting hung, sighing in the perpetual wind that elevation brought, and he ducked behind several sheets of the translucent stuff, until he was sure his silhouette was sufficiently blurred.

The gunfire had stopped. They were probably moving to flank him, and cut him off from the stairwell on the north end.

He'd been right about the plastic; the white translucent sheeting had been hung to protect more sensitive equipment from gusting rain and dust, and there were several saw horses and plenty of tools. He finally located a sawsall that was plugged in, and traced the live wire to the ceiling and its connected electrical box. Mac left the bucket near where he'd entered, hastily uncoiling several yards of wire.

Somewhere there had to be a container of spare electrical parts –

Bingo.

Mac rummaged through the yellow toolbox until he found a couple appropriately sized wire nuts, and he wasted no time in yanking the electrical wire out of the outlet box. It was already stripped, and the multitool came out again he stripped a few lengths of the eight gauge, then re-wired the box. He left it hanging where it was – they'd never notice it – and sprinted back to the bucket of solvent.

Mac looked at the wire in his hand, then winced in anticipation and briefly touched the exposed aluminum with his bare finger. Just to make sure.

Not live. Good.

Mac stuffed the wire underneath the plastic bucket's handle before winding it up into the bucket, making sure it was just touching the surface of the liquid solvent. Too deep, and there wouldn't be enough oxygen to trigger the explosion. Once he had it placed, MacGyver folded the heavy gauge wire around the lip the bucket like a hanger, for extra stability.

Then he backed off, with the two ends of the last two wires in his hands, and pulled them both back to the largest sawhorse, almost tripping over a messy pile of black steel conduit piping. He pulled the wire running to the bucket through a toolhole in the sawhorse surface, anchoring it, and he kept the wire linked back to the electrical box in his hand, ready to go.

Then Mac ducked down behind the sawhorse, as small as he could, quietly rolled one of the conduit rods out from under his feet, and he waited.

And tried very hard not to think about how close he was to the outer wall of the tower, and the fact that there were only a couple feet between him and the beginning of a _very_ long drop.

Second after second ticked by, and nothing happened. The constant breeze snapping the plastic, and the ringing in his left ear from that slug, made it difficult to hear them coming. His wandering eyes spotted a pneumatic nailgun resting on the sawhorse, fully loaded with nails, which might be a decent Plan B, if Plan A didn't go so well.

A shadow moving too steadily to be the wind finally caught his eye, and Mac focused. There were two of them, moving slow. However, luck was with him; they'd decided to enter the sheeted off portion together, and relatively near where Mac had.

Well within range.

Mac glanced around, eyes lighting an already cut section of the black steel conduit just about the same length as a billy club, and he estimated how many strides he'd have to take to grab it. Just in case.

His ear popped quietly. "Mac, where the hell are you?!"

The first man ducked around the final hanging sheet of plastic, gun up, and then quietly cut across the open space to a column, for cover. His companion followed right behind, choosing the nearest column, almost on top of the bucket.

Mac waited a beat, then he rolled one of the conduit rods at his feet, so that it clanked gently against the one beside it.

As expected, he was immediately spotted, and though he had no idea what the man was screaming at him, he put up his hands, and slowly emerged from behind the sawhorse. The second man took a few steps forward, barking orders, and the first guy came back out of his cover, coming to back up his friend.

The first man made a sharp gesture with the gun, and Mac glanced at his left hand, which was still holding the wire. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, then slowly set the wire down, bringing it in contact with its partner on the sawhorse.

Several things happened at once.

The solvent blew, sending its original container flying into the air. Both shooters were thrown by the blast and hot plastic shrapnel. A gun discharged, the bullet striking the wall above Mac's sawhorse. The pressurized air pipe, to which the nailgun was connected, ruptured. And Mac was hit with a blast of compressed air equivalent to a fist in the chest.

There were only three feet of concrete floor behind him, before nothing. Mac folded his knees, trying to lower his center of gravity, trying to fall faster, but his inseam was thirty-six inches and his center of gravity was too high.

He wasn't even outside the building before he'd calculated, without any margin of error, that he was screwed.

Mac stretched out his arms for the building, still trying to fold up his legs so they wouldn't send him even further from the walls of the tower, and his fingertips brushed the concrete lip of the sixty-second floor without finding purchase. His momentum ceased to be as much backwards as it was straight down, and as he tumbled towards the sixty-first floor, he caught sight of Jack's startled face.

-M-

The explosion was right overhead, dust was just starting to shake from the ceiling, and -

Brown skinny-cut khakis came into view.

Jack dropped the gun and lunged like he was on the five yard line and the quarterback had thrown the ball three yards short. His left foot slipped out from beneath him on the dusty concrete, but the kid was so close to the edge, and the second his fingers brushed something solid Jack's hand clamped around it quick as a rattlesnake.

Dalton curled his knees, willing them to catch the slight lip of concrete at the very edge of the floor, and he threw out his left hand, reaching for anything solid he could grab to stop them.

The weight at the end of his right arm hit, and Jack felt his body skate sideways on the concrete. His left heel, however, caught the lip on the edge, and Jack braced his left arm against the same lip. He managed to stop the slide, with the entire right half of his body dangling off the side of the building.

And there was still a weight on the end of it.

Jack dared to look down, and found Mac swinging by his own right arm, his wrist tight in Jack's grasp. Wide, panicked blue eyes locked onto his, and Jack heaved with everything he had, pulling Mac up just a few inches.

His partner used it to clamp his right hand around Jack's wrist, in a classic climber's hold, and Jack grit his teeth hard enough to make them crack, pulling with his left heel and left hand.

He didn't have it. He couldn't pull them both up from this position, and he couldn't get Mac up high enough to grab hold himself.

He finally took a breath, trying to adjust for the wind that was blowing Mac around like a plastic bag, and his partner did his best not to flail, resolutely only looking up. His expression hadn't changed much – surprised and grim was now just . . . grim.

"Jack!"

"Hang on!" he ordered harshly, because he was pretty sure he knew what foolishness was going to be suggested next.

Mac's eyes were darting around, from the tower wall to his position, and Jack knew he'd figured it out. He just couldn't haul them up from this angle. He could try to get more of his left leg up over that two inch lip, try to back them up and out that way, but if he slipped –

And it was his left leg. It already hurt like hell. He didn't dare move it; if it gave out, they were both done.

If they stayed there long enough, they were also both done.

"Jack, you can't pull us up!"

Now why was it the only time that guy spoke plain English was when it was exactly what he _didn't_ want to hear? "That a fact?!"

Mac opened his mouth to reply, then a look of consternation crossed his otherwise still-bleak expression. " . . . yes!"

What was a fact was that if that gunman Mac had been trying to blow up was still mobile, he'd shoot them off the building before his left hand gave out.

People were shouting in his ear, but Jack couldn't really make them out with the wind outside the building, and Mac gave him another long look before he glanced down, where his feet were dangling over the seemingly tiny little town of Dubai. They might as well have been in a plane, Jack had taken parachute drops from less attitude than this.

Parachute.

"Can you whip up a parachute or . . . umbrella or somethin'?!"

Mac glanced back up, looking a little more pale than he had a second ago, and his voice cracked. "Who am I, Mary Poppins?!" But Mac's right hand was still tightly gripping his wrist.

"Don't you look down!" Jack ordered, and his partner promptly did it again. Then he kicked out his legs for the building, trying to find purchase. Jack took another deep breath, grunting and angling his body to get Mac closer.

"Can you – get a hold?!"

Mac was looking down, his answer was too muffled.

"What?!"

He glanced back up, and grim had been replaced by more grim, and a little apprehensive. "Yeah! Jack, can you get me lower?!"

"Lower?!" His own voice cracked; he was pretty sure he sounded like a soprano in a boy's choir. "Are you kidding me man!?" He was already almost beyond the point of no return pulling himself up, extra buck sixty of luggage or not.

Mac nodded, his fingers crawling along the outer concrete of the structure. He shouted something Jack couldn't make out, then remembered to look up.

"I can grab the ceiling of the next floor!" Then he craned his neck over his overextended right shoulder, inspecting the side of the tower. His head came back around quickly, and he winced. "Can you swing me?!"

"Swing you?!" Fool kid wanted him to throw him into the building. Jack felt himself laugh, and the left heel of his boot slipped a little on the concrete.

"Yeah! Can you do that without falling?!"

He took a few deep breaths. "Hell no!" But then he shook his head. "On three?!"

Mac shook his head vehemently. "Just one swing! Jack, if you can't-"

Jack tightened his grip on Mac's wrist, and he felt his partner hesitate before doing the same. He braced everything he could brace, including his aching gut, and then he met Mac's eyes and he nodded.

There was a lot of stuff on that kid's face. Some fear, some math. A lot of determination. He saw Mac take a deep breath, then he nodded back, and Jack hung on doggedly as Mac put his feet against the concrete wall and straightened them, like was about to start rappelling.

The weight shift was noticeable, and Jack pressed his head against the edge of the building and took a few rapid breaths, trying to get more oxygen to flagging muscles.

The kid pushed off – probably way less hard than he could have, and maybe not quite enough – and both their wrists trembled with the strain. Then the kid was swinging back towards the building, and right as his left hand reached out to grab the lip of the concrete ceiling below him, Jack somehow opened his right hand, and let him go.

And Mac fell.

For one heartstopping instant he thought Mac didn't have enough forward momentum. He didn't, not from the swing, but he found purchase with his left hand and yanked himself forward, and while Jack never lost sight of him, he fell back inside the building. It was a thirteen foot drop, and the kid landed flat on his back.

Flat on his back on a solid floor, a good foot from the edge.

Jack gave a whoop, waiting until he saw his partner moving, albeit slowly, before he finally looked away, back at his own predicament. Swinging Mac had taken its toll on his position, his left heel was barely hanging on so he went ahead and kicked it up, letting his lower half fall. He swung his hips like a pendulum, getting his right hand high enough to grab the lip of the concrete near his left, and after that it was basically just a pull-up.

A pull-up, about a thousand feet in the air, with no safety harness, on a windy, dusty, sheer cliff face. After he was already physically spent.

Basically.

_This ain't no big deal, Jack ol' buddy._

A few maybe not so impressive wiggles later, he had his forearms over the lip, and after that it was just hooking his right leg over the side and rolling.

Jack lay there for a few seconds, panting, and listened to the cacophony in his ear.

"-ac! Jack! Come in!"

He heard a sad little cough over the coms, and Jack started to chuckle.

It wasn't exactly what Riley had had in mind, he was sure, but he could hear the relief in her voice. "You both okay?"

"Was that the two of you I just saw dangling off the side of that building?!" Bozer didn't sound relieved. Bozer sounded furious.

"If you're done monkeying around up there, we still have those charges to locate!"

Jack closed his eyes and made the sound of a whip cracking, and he heard Mac's answering snicker on coms. Jack was rolling back to his feet, searching for his discarded pistol, when his partner's voice came back, again.

". . . actually, Matty . . . I think I just did."

-M-

Mac rolled painfully to his feet, eyes on the thin, bright red wire on the ceiling, and he started towards it, being a little more careful this time. He had no doubt Jack was going to go up and secure the two gunman he'd at least stunned with that solvent explosion, but it would have taken more than two people to wire the tower.

This floor was no more finished than the previous, with the same translucent sheeting in places, and Mac worked his way from column to column, trying to ease the sharp ache in his right shoulder as he followed that thin little red wire.

That fall hurt a little more than he thought it would.

Soon enough he was back to the elevator bay, and luckily for him, they hadn't even tried to hide the device. The hunter green color was a surprise, however.

"Uh, Matty . . . these are M112 charges."

"Did you say M112?"

Mac didn't even get a chance to confirm before Jack jumped in. "These guys are military?"

That was a good question. "Or have access to military grade explosives." It looked like a pack of eight blocks, with a thin red wire going into the charge switch and a thin red wire going out.

"Well, on the plus side, whoever set them up daisy-chained them." Mac patted his pockets down, looking for his multitool, and he was just starting to get a sinking feel that he'd dropped it when he found it had somehow migrated into his watch pocket.

"Wait. That's good?"

"Yes it is." Mac glanced around, then stuck the swiss army knife in his mouth, and dragged over an enormous empty wooden cable spindle the construction crew had been using as a table. He climbed onto it, once again aware of how unhappy his back was with him at the moment, and got a better look at the device.

"It means I only have to deal with one timer, not a dozen," Mac clarified, once he'd taken the tool out of his mouth. The bad news, which he didn't feel the need to share just yet, was that he hadn't found the first bomb in the chain.

He popped the cover off the detonator, locating the two magnets, and – of course – a mercury switch. Standard demo tactic: if your charge didn't go off on time, as part of its daisy chain, when the building started to fall over, the mercury switch would trigger. A late explosion was bad, but still better than a piece of the building coming down intact.

"How much time do we have?"

That was an excellent question. He informed Matty that her question was excellent.

She was not amused. "Thank you, professor. I take it you don't know."

"I don't know," he confirmed, turning on the spindle and casting around the space. "At least some of their men are still on property, they'd need at least five minutes to get clear, so . . ."

"Oh. Plenty of time then," Jack deadpanned, and there was the sound of gunfire. Definitely on coms this time.

Yeah. Plenty of time.

Mac hopped down off the spindle, following the new red wire, and it disappeared into the elevator shaft. Because the building was still under construction, the shafts were all open, and Mac ducked his head in to trail the red wire down to the next floor.

And the next floor.

And the next floor.

At least four. And frankly, four explosive packs this size weren't going to do the job. It might sever the top of the tower from the rest of it, but it wouldn't be enough to guarantee the direction of fall for a tower held together so loosely.

One of those had to be much, much bigger than the others.

Mac backed away from his second potential incredibly long fall of the day, and glanced back up at the charge he could see. The mercury switches meant he'd have to be very careful, and cut back to the detonator to stop each one from going off – at least until he found the first in the chain. That was a forty second operation, ideally, and if he was right about the five minute clearance time –

Then they didn't have enough time.

Which meant Plan B.

The elevator had power, and Mac used the swiss army knife to pry the elevator call switch plate off, glancing inside the box. It was temporary wiring, a much higher gauge than a simple button needed. A quick look told him there were no other outlets nearby.

Two more gunshots rang out in his ear, and Mac frowned, and did a quick lap of the floor. No bad guys, but not much in the way of electrical equipment either. It looked like they were prepping for drywall on this floor. Spackle, putty knives, drywall saws –

Mac did a few quick equations in his head, but he didn't like any of the numbers. He returned to the shaft, hoping there would be some other indicator of which charge was the first part of the daisy chain, thus had the timer and the board, and, two floors below, someone else's head poked into the shaft, and looked up at him.

It wasn't Jack's.

Mac and an Arab man both stared at each for a split second, startled, and then both jerked their heads out of the elevator shaft. A few bullets pinged the ceiling over Mac's head, but the guy had no shot, and Mac opened his mouth, then sighed.

Bad idea was still better than no idea at all.

"I have an idea, but –"

"I already don't like anything about this, Blondie. Just do it."

Mac went back to the pile of drywall supplies, and selected a steel saw and a gallon bucket of spackle. Generally speaking, drywall was not conductive. It was made of gypsum powder and couldn't carry a charge. Spackle was just drywall with a little bit of water and adhesive in it.

Both of which were conductive until they dried.

The power coming out of the elevator box was many orders of magnitude more than he needed. He had nothing he could cut down the voltage with, except a thin enough joiner of conductive material.

Mac carried the tools back to the giant wooden spindle, wasting no time in pulling whatever loose wire he could get out of the elevator box.

"Jack, you busy?"

There was a short delay. "A little."

Of course he was. "I got a guy headed up from two stories down."

"Of course you do."

Mac smiled, and hopped up onto the spindle, very gently removing the first red wire from the demolition charge. The mercury switch was waiting for a building to fall down around it, not an EOD tech to touch it, and it barely registered the movement.

Mac let the wire dangle from the ceiling, and, keeping his hand perfectly steady, pulled the second one, with the same results.

He yanked the two red wires, getting as much play as possible, and then he looped the longer one through the handle on the drywall saw, and put the stripped end against the metal of the sawblade. Then he thumbed a dollop of spackle onto it. The second red wire didn't have enough play to wrap around the saw, so he estimated the best place, put on another glob of spackle, and hopped down, letting the saw dangle as he grabbed the wire from the electrical box.

This was a very simple daisy chain. Right before the first explosive detonated, it would send a low voltage charge down the line to the next one, which would cause it to arm, and send a low voltage charge down the line to the next charge before exploding itself. And so on, and so on, so there would be roughly half a second between each charge detonating on the chain.

And this was presuming a single chain. Still, it wasn't like this crew had had time to drill holes in concrete to lay these charges. They'd run the wires up the elevator shaft for a reason – it was the quickest way.

The odds of a single chain were pretty good.

His odds of converting 110 volts down to 32 or 34 volts with a drywall saw and spackle were not as good.

If there wasn't enough conductive material to allow sufficient charge to pass through, all he was going to do was send the same low voltage charge telling every other explosive on the chain that it was time to go off. If he sent all 110 volts, he'd overwhelm the carrying capacity of the detonator and the explosive material would be ignited.

What he needed to do was find the sweet spot in the middle, and give them enough that the charge would go down the entire daisy chain and short the switches, but not actually set off the M112.

And he was doing it by calculating the amount of water in a heaping teaspoon of spackle, in a brand he didn't recognize, with the specifications written in Arabic.

"Matty, I think I can short out all the devices on the daisy chain, but, if I'm wrong –"

"You'll set them all off?"

"I'll set them all off," he confirmed.

"Jack, have you seen anything that looks like the beginning of this daisy chain?" Matty didn't sound hopeful.

There was a grunt. "I tell you what, I seen about seven more bad guys than I cared to. But no, not a big red bomb with a number one pasted on it. Comin' down to you, Mac-"

There was a gunshot, and a little bit of cement puffed right above the spindle, and Mac ducked reflexively, not quite sure where the shot had come from.

Now or never.

He grabbed the live wire from the elevator box, then popped out of cover, grabbed the saw blade with his right hand, used his left to jam the last red wire into its dollop of spackle, and touched the elevator wire, also in his left hand, to the sawblade.

That he was still holding. In his right hand.

However much voltage went into the red wires, a good 40 amps of 110 went into his hand, and Mac felt the very familiar sensation of a jet of hot tub bubbles shooting through his fingers. While his right hand was now locked and out of his control, his left was not, and Mac yanked the live wire off the saw. He dropped it and ducked back down, waiting for his right hand to go numb.

The building didn't shake. There was no explosion.

Too much or too little would have resulted in both those things happening. Mac didn't get much chance to celebrate, however, when the Arab from a couple stories down came around his wooden spindle, and once more there was a gun pointed at his face.

He shouted something, and Mac raised his hands again and slowly climbed to his feet. This time the wires were much more obvious, and the man's dark eyes flicked from his demolition charge, that had a drywall saw hanging from it, back to Mac.

His voice was rapid fire, and no less angry. Mac watched him silently, until it was pretty obvious he was expected to say something.

Mac gave the man a helpless look. "Do you . . . speak English?"

Behind him, there was a whir in the elevator shaft; the construction platform was moving.

The gun jerked at his face again, and then at the bomb. The words didn't matter, the man's intention was clear.

_You broke my bomb. Fix it._

Mac kept a politely confused expression on his face, and stepped back just a little further, so that he could look at his handiwork. He was now covering the front of the elevator shaft entrance, and the gunman shouted again as the construction platform clattered to a stop, then waved him out of the way.

MacGyver agreeably stepped aside, and Jack shot the gunman in the shoulder.

His weapon clattered to the concrete, and Mac winced and checked his numbed right hand while his partner pulled a light blue ziptie – and where he'd gotten it, Mac had no idea – and secured the eighth gunman to some steel conduit piping along one of the columns.

Jack didn't say a word.

Mac watched him tighten the restraints, every motion carefully controlled, and then turned on him with a very, very serious look. He raised his hand and jabbed a finger at the elevator bay.

"What does that say?"

Mac blinked at him, then slowly turned and followed the gesture, to where the floor number was spraypainted on the wall.

"Sixty-one?"

His partner chuckled, low in his throat. "Yep. That's what it says. Sixty-one. I figured you could read numbers, you being a math nerd and all. So would you mind telling me why the hell you told me you were on sixty-two, when you very clearly _weren't on sixty-two_?"

Mac stifled an eye roll, and stepped on to the construction elevator. Jack followed him, and punched the down button savagely. The platform agreeably started to descend.

"Sorry, Jack, it was bad handwriting-"

"It was-" Jack stopped, and briefly rubbed his upper lip with his thumb. "The construction guys had bad handwriting?"

Mac shrugged at him helplessly. "What do you want me to say? The three looked like a two."

"Well yeah." The hand over his mouth gestured towards Mac, like that was completely reasonable. "Dude, he works in construction, you know, it's spraypaint, not the best surface-"

"And in the Arabic alphabet, everything's read right to left, so the numbers are actually written backwards -"

"Yeah, absolutely," Jack agreed instantly. "That explains why I went to the northeast corner, just like you said, and –"

Mac nodded. "Hey, you were right where I needed you-"

Jack suddenly went for him, hands going straight for his throat, and Mac actually backed up against the walls of the construction elevator as his partner advanced. Jack stopped himself at the last instant, his hands visibly shaking as he folded his outstretched fingers into fists, and his expression told how much effort it was taking.

But then Jack took a breath, and Mac did the same, and Jack cocked his head to the side, and the fists eventually settled onto the tops of Mac's shoulders, tense and curled like raptor claws.

"Man, if you ever do that again, I mean _ever_ . . ."

And then Mac was unceremoniously pulled into a hug.

He froze a second, bemused, and then clapped Jack on the back firmly. ". . . thanks, big guy."

After his partner had doled out a couple punishing claps of his own, he released him, and Mac tried to be subtle about easing the knots out of his aching back.

There was a pop in his ear. "We've just evacuated the last of the delegation." Samantha's voice was as cool as ever.

"Good work. Mac, Jack, cleaned up your end yet?"

Mac ran his fingertips over his still-numb right hand, flexing it experimentally. "All the detonators are fried. I left the explosives in place, but it'd take a couple hours to re-wire those charges."

"The local authorities will have control of the tower long before then," Matty confirmed. "Way to not blow this one."

Jack, who had been pacing inside the elevator, turned and waggled a finger at Mac. "Eh? See? She likes the puns too-"

"Even though you two were both falling down on the job," Matty added darkly, with no trace of playfulness.

"Man, did you see us? I was like Spiderman meets Shane Buechele out there –"

"Yes, your reflexes were very impressive," Mac agreed, studying the interior of the construction elevator intently to hide the smile he was sure was on his face. He was going to be hearing about this one for a while.

"Damn right they were! Jack is _back_ , baby!"

"Well, then Jack, you and everyone else can get _back_ to LA. You four should be able to make it in time for pumpkin pie."

Pumpkin pie.

Mac glanced up to see Jack was studying his watch.

"That's right. It's still yesterday back in the good ol' US of A."

LA was about ten hours behind Dubai, which put this op going down about ten pm their time. They should be exhausted, but right now he was riding a high of adrenaline and exhilaration, and one look at the way his partner was pacing told him Jack felt exactly the same way.

He received a huge Jack Dalton grin. "That was _crazy_ , dude," Jack finally said.

"Oh yeah," Mac agreed wholeheartedly. Then he laughed a little. The odds alone, that Jack truly was in the exact right place at the exact right time -

His partner chuckled, then he folded his arms behind his head and stretched out his deltoids. "That was crazy," he repeated, a little wonderingly. "I hate to say it, because we're not out of the world's slowest elevator just yet, but . . . that was close, buddy. Close like Cairo close."

If they subtracted the radiation and added about a thousand feet . . . it had been pretty damn close.

"I was never worried," Mac declared airily, casually studying his tingling right hand as his partner stopped dead in his tracks. He let Jack sweat that a second before adding, "When have you ever . . . let me down?"

He looked up, waggling his eyebrows to find his partner just shaking his head at him. "Good one, dude – but you know, you're gonna see me tomorrow, I'm going to be all grey." He pointed at his head. "George Clooney grey. And it's gonna be your fault, man. You know that-"

"Actually, I know that grey hair is caused by the hair follicles becoming damaged over time – the same way your DNA is, as it reproduces –"

"You can nerd out all you want," Jack interrupted, making a broad gesture with his hands to Mac's side of the elevator. "I am just grateful that I still get the opportunity to be annoyed by it."

Fair enough. "So, did this count as our obstacle course?"

His partner gave him a quizzical look, and Mac pointed at Jack's watch. "It's Thanksgiving Day, Jack."

His partner stared at him a second, then shook his head, twisting his mouth up like he'd just eaten something sour. "No it is not. It doesn't count until it's Thanksgiving back home. You have to do the testing in the same time zone."

Mac scoffed. "When did _that_ rule get written-"

"Just right now, right here in this elevator," Jack continued. "And I'm tempted to suggest we hold off a day because of jetlag, but . . . I already know we're gonna kill it."

His grin was infectious. "Oh yes we are."

"Cause we already _did_ , brother!" Jack held out his fist, and Mac bonked it, then they clasped hands and chest bumped. "If they do another Die Hard, Bruce is gonna have to up his moves, man! Now he's gotta compare to Dubai, baby!"

Mac leaned back against the elevator wall with a shake of his head, glancing at the concrete moving steadily by, waiting for a number to appear. Construction elevators were built for hauling very heavy things, not whisking passengers rapidly from floor to floor. He'd guess they were still somewhere in the twenties.

"Hey, that botherin' you?"

Mac glanced at his partner, then followed his gaze down to his right hand, which he was still massaging with his left. "Oh, yeah, I kinda shocked it when I, y'know, disarmed six bombs simultaneously with spackle."

"Oh, did you just disarm six bombs simultaneously with spackle?" Jack mumbled in a whiny voice. "Well, I took down eight guys with my right hand. _And_ I caught your ass."

Most of that was true. "Yes you did."

"Damn right I did," Jack added, puffing up his chest. "And do you know what you did?"

"Uh . . . took down two of the eight guys you just counted as your guys?"

"Hey, uh-uh, they were still kickin' when I went back up there – on the _sixty-third floor_ ," he pressed, and Mac rolled his eyes.

"But you did do somethin' pretty cool," Jack continued, eyes still on Mac's right hand.

He glanced at it, flexing it again, and then looked back up at Jack. Some of the jarhead hooah attitude had left his face, replaced by something more sincere.

". . . you didn't flinch, dude."

Mac looked back down at his hand again, where still-red scars were peeking out from beneath his sleeve's cuff.

"You were staring down at a sixty-three story fall, and you were solid as a rock." Jack whistled. "If you'd flinched, even a little bit, I don't think I'd have kept hold of you."

That was probably more true than Jack knew.

"Told you, bud. We'd get you there by Thanksgiving."

Sleep still wasn't coming easy, but there were nights now and then he got seven straight hours. This wasn't their first mission since recertifying, but it was certainly the most physically taxing. His clothes fit, and –

And his hands hadn't been shaking when he pulled those wires.

"If your leg hadn't held, it wouldn't have made any difference if I'd flinched or not," Mac replied easily.

Jack took that compliment seriously, for once, giving his thigh a couple pats. "Yeah, man. That's the one time I let you down, but don't you worry. It'll only happen that once."

Mac made a loose fist with his right hand, still working out the pins and needles. "You didn't let me down, Jack," he assured his partner. "You were right there with me, the whole time."

Jack was watching him with a strange expression. "Y'mean the 'wrong' me?"

"Nope, I mean you. Sometimes you were a hallucination, other times I thought maybe you were a ghost, but . . ." He stretched his fingers wide. "You and Boze had my back. You talked to me. Kept me sane. I wouldn't have gotten through that without you." Mac sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. "You've never let me down, Jack. Full stop."

Jack slowly nodded, and they both glanced over as the elevator finally pulled itself to a smooth, controlled halt, and the safety rod dropped, presenting them with the lobby.

"Happy Turkey Day, man."

"Happy Turkey Day," Mac replied.

**FIN**

-M-

Before I say anything else, I would like to call out the amazing **Kuku25** for serving as a tireless cheerleader and beta reader for the last half-dozen chapters. They are much improved from her thoughtful critique, and I truly appreciate her, and the time she has spent generally just being awesome.

I hope it's become clear why this story was called 'Turkey Day.' Between the setting in the geographical region of Turkey, the fact that I was writing it for NaNoWriMo (that happens in November,) and of course, because Thanksgiving Day became the day Mac would get to see how much he'd recovered. (Also, I was supposed to have finished this story on Thanksgiving. Whoops.)

I hope you liked it!

Regarding a sequel – if it happens, it'll happen this November during NaNoWriMo. I really underestimated how much time it takes to write a long story, and how difficult it is to write in general. I have a lot more respect for the authors who post stuff out here, and truly comprehend the effort they're going through, just to get an idea out and see what people think.

Now that I have time to READ again, I am looking forward to stopping the lurking, and starting to leave much-deserved reviews!

Thank you folks, very much.


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